This Fatal Tragedy
by Random Phantom
Summary: Inspector Morse investigates a murder/suicide which everyone else feels is an open-and-shut case, to his frustration. Years later, it falls to Lewis to solve the mystery... but with tragic consequences. Morse & Lewis crossover.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Contrary to popular belief... I ain't dead yet. You get my apologies for the long absence, but no explanation - sorry! Warning: this fic is a little... sad. Not really depressing but just sad, in places. It's based on an album by Dreamtheater, called"Scenes From a Memory". You don't need to know the album to read the story, but I do recommend you look it up at some point._

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><p>PART 1: This Fatal Tragedy<p>

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><p>"He's here, Sarge."<p>

Sergeant Robbie Lewis turned around as the young PC Clifton murmured his warning quickly. Sure enough, the distinctive red Jaguar growled its way up the narrow dirt track, and parked up next to the crime scene tape that cordoned off the area. It was dusk, and the light of the day was failing, as Scene-of-Crime Officers quickly went about rigging up emergency lighting to a generator, preparing to work through the night if necessary.

Lewis approached the car with haste, knowing that his governor hated to be kept waiting and would want to know what was going on straight away, no matter what his temper. Lewis quickly suppressed his smile; Morse was dressed in his tuxedo, and had no doubt been dragged away from some concert of, to Lewis's mind, incomprehensible music.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening, sir," Lewis apologised, hastily, anticipating a bad mood.

"Don't be," Morse said, tersely, "the singer was the understudy, and she was terrible – too nervous to sing in tune. And the flautist was always two bars behind the rest of the ensemble."

"Ah. Right, sir," Lewis nodded, sympathetically, "still, I'm sorry to drag you away from your evening off."

Morse gave him a piercing look, as if doubting the sincerity of the statement, but Lewis's expression was as open and honest as ever.

"Alright, Lewis – what have we got?"

Lewis lifted the crime scene tape to allow Morse to duck beneath it. They were parked on the edge of the public entrance to Wytham Woods, a popular spot for dog walkers, lovers after a romantic tryst, and, sadly, those who were attempting to hide something from the eyes of the world… and the law.

"Murder, sir," Lewis answered, leading the way towards a spot where a photographer was taking pictures of something on the ground, as the green-suited pathologist knelt over the indistinguishable shape, "a young woman, sir."

Morse grunted by way of acknowledgment; "What do we know so far?"

"It's all pretty desperate, sir," Lewis sighed, "it looks like the killer's dead, too – suicide."

"Witnesses?"

"Only one, sir. That's him, over there, with PC Clifton," Lewis pointed, and then carried on walking, "he says that he was out walking his dog, when he heard what he described as a 'horrifying sound' – the woman screaming. He heard an argument, then a loud bang and came running to find her lying on the ground. He says he saw a man standing over her, sir. The man looked nervous, all shaky, like, and he was holding a gun in his hand. The witness – Mr Whittaker – says he tried to help, but the killer turned the weapon on himself."

They came to a stop beside the bodies. Morse swallowed, hard; he was one of the best detectives on the force, but he had never been able to harden his stomach to the sight of blood. And there was a lot of it. He forced himself to take in the scene; a young woman lay dead upon the ground, her long, curly brown hair splayed out on the floor, framing her face like a cushion as green eyes stared upwards at the sky from a pale-grey face. She was fairly young, probably mid-thirties. Her mouth was open in a fixed expression of terror, and Morse could see the hole in her chest from a close-range bullet wound. Blood spattered her face and torso and had pooled beneath her, indicating that she had fallen when shot and had not been moved from where she had died.

Lying across the unfortunate woman was a man, his body having fallen on top of hers after apparently self-inflicting a bullet wound to his right temple. His blood mixed with hers and matted in his dark hair. He was slumped face down, so Morse could not determine the man's physical appearance.

"We've no identification yet, sir," Lewis said, quietly, as Morse grimaced and turned away slightly, not wanting to look at the grisly scene for any longer than necessary, "Mr Whittaker says he thinks he shouted out in shock, and then ran to call for help. He reckons it was a 'sad close to a broken love affair', sir… he's a bit… dramatic. Sir."

"Oh, is he, now?" Morse snorted, "Does he know either of the deceased, Lewis?"

"No, sir, he says not. I think he's just trying to make sense of what he saw, sir."

"Wild theories won't help us at this stage," Morse told him, turning back, "What can you tell us, Doctor?"

The young man in the green scene-suit turned to look at Morse, nervously. Dr Russell, the usual pathologist, was on two weeks' annual leave, and her temporary replacement was terrified of the sour, white-haired, demanding detective. Fairly fresh out of medical school, Morse was highly dubious of the claim that this young lackey was all that had been available to cover for their usual competent pathologist.

"They've… um… they've been dead for about an hour at the most, Chief Inspector," he replied, quickly, licking his lips, nervously, "it… err… it seems the woman died first and then the man shot himself. The gun was still in his hand. My findings will probably be murder and suicide. An open and shut case."

"Where is it now?"

"What?"

"The gun, man, where's the gun now? It's not in his hand!"

"Forensics removed it for evidence."

"Nothing should be removed until I've said so," Morse growled at him, "there had better be some good photographs of that."

The photographer and the pathologist exchanged looks, and the photographer simply shrugged.

"I'm sure there are, Chief Inspector," the pathologist, Dr. Astbury, nodded quickly, "I'll… I'll be able to tell you more about them after I've done the autopsies."

Morse grumbled something under his breath, and Lewis could only follow him silently as the Chief Inspector crossed over to where the witness, Mr Whittaker, was waiting for them with PC Clifton. Morse gave Clifton a look; the PC glanced quickly at Lewis for confirmation, and Lewis nodded to the young man, letting him know that he was dismissed. With a quick mutter of affirmation, Clifton ducked his head and went to assist with cordoning off the tree line to the woods.

The Chief Inspector eyed their witness critically. Whittaker was of medium height, about five-foot-nine, a stocky build, and hard, blue eyes set closely together above a slightly bulbous nose and thin lips. He stood with an air of excitement, as if he could not wait to tell the story of the events he had witnessed, as if he had no insight into just how tragic the two bodies appeared to Morse.

"Mr Whittaker? My name is Chief Inspector Morse. I believe you've already met Sergeant Lewis. The Sergeant has told me that you were out walking your dog."

"Yes sir, I was, and that was when I heard this horrifying sound, a woman's scream…"

"Where is your dog now, Mr Whittaker?"

Cut off in mid-flow, Whittaker blinked in surprise; "I…uh… he ran off, Inspector. I think he was scared of the gunshots."

"You're not carrying a leash, Mr Whittaker. It's a public bylaw that all dogs should be kept on leashes in this area."

"Oh… well… uh… Wolfie never needs a leash normally. He was just frightened by the bangs and ran off."

"What kind of dog is…'Wolfie'… Mr Whittaker?"

"He's a… a Husky… look, shouldn't you be more interested in the murder than in my dog?"

"Mr Whittaker, if there's a dog on the loose, I want my officers to be aware of it," Morse replied, dryly, "and I'm sure you would appreciate having it returned to you should we find it during our investigation."

"Oh… oh, yes, of course."

"Right… now then. You said that you heard a woman scream, and you came running. Did you hear anything else?"

"Oh, yes," Whittaker smiled, giving Morse a conspiratorial look, "I ran towards the noise, thinking I might be able to help. As I got closer, I could hear them arguing – the man and the woman. She had her back to me, I was over there, see, but I could hear her crying and they were arguing, her and the man."

"Could you hear what they were saying?"

"It sounded really tragic," Whittaker's earnestness to tell his story was almost macabre, "she said that she wanted to love him, but she couldn't put up with his evil ways. 'Evil ways', that's exactly what she said, she said he'd fallen into an evil way and that she was sorry to let him down, but she couldn't love a wayward man. Like I said, he killed her and then himself, a sad close to a broken love affair, that's what I call it."

Morse's expression gave away nothing; "Did they say anything else?"

"Well, she said she'd forgive him if he tried to change, and asked if that was why he wanted to meet her here tonight."

"Their meeting was prearranged?"

"It seemed that way, Inspector. She wasn't screaming anymore, so I thought everything was fine. I wasn't about to interrupt a lover's quarrel."

"Was there a struggle between them, at all?"

"No… he said something I didn't hear, and then just… well, he took the gun out of his pocket and he shot her. Point blank, right in front of me."

"What did you do, Mr Whittaker?"

"Me? Well… I shouted out; you know, I shouted 'No', or something like that. I was behind the tree – I didn't come forwards because I thought he might shoot me as well. Then he put the gun to his head, and I realised what he was going to do. I ran forward then, to try and stop him or something, but he just… bang. Shot himself. He fell on top of the poor girl. I went over to them, realised they were both dead, and ran to call for help. I have an in-car phone, you see."

Morse's gaze barely flickered; "Thank you, Mr Whittaker. You've been most helpful. Sergeant Lewis has your contact details, I take it?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis said, as Whittaker nodded, quickly.

"Right. Well. We'll be in touch, Mr Whittaker. You can go."

"Thank you, Chief Inspector."

With that, Whittaker turned on his heel and strode off. Morse watched the man climb into an expensive-looking Mercedes, which drove off with a powerful roar, accelerating up the road and soon disappearing from view. Morse's eyes were narrow as he watched him go.

"Lewis," he said, at last, "have you ever owned a dog?"

"Oh, aye, sir," Lewis nodded, smiling slightly at the memory, "when I was a lad, we had a little Beagle – Ben, his name was. Lovely little pup, he was, real friendly like."

"Did… 'Ben'… ever run away?"

"Only once, sir," Lewis's brow furrowed slightly, as he tried to work out where this slightly unusual line of questioning was going, "I spent all night out on the heath looking for him. Me mam was worried sick – turned out the dog had gone home without us. I shouted meself hoarse looking for him."

"Man's best friend, and all…" Morse mused, "whereas our Mr Whittaker just got into the car and drove away without a second thought for his beloved pet… I don't see any evidence of a dog around here, do you, Lewis?"

"No sir. But I think PC Clifton does, sir."

"What…?"

"It looks like he's just stood in it, sir."

"Lew-iss!"

* * *

><p>Night fell, and emergency lighting flooded the area with an off-white glow that only seemed to emphasise the darkness of the shadows. Dr Astbury gave the go-ahead for the bodies to be removed to the morgue, and the Constables held at bay the gaggle of reporters that were already arriving. Morse eyed the journalists with distaste as they talked excitedly into their microphones in front of live television cameras.<p>

"I bet they've all been talking to Whittaker," he groused, "that man seemed to find the whole thing far to exciting for my tastes, Lewis."

"Aye, sir," Lewis agreed, knowing that no other response was necessary.

Morse watched, from a safe distance, as the bodies were lifted into bags and carried towards the waiting hearse.

"Chief Inspector!" Dr Astbury cried out, waving to him, "I've found a note, Morse! A suicide note!"

Morse swore, and strode over to the doctor quickly.

"Keep your voice down!" Morse hissed at him, "There are cameras rolling all around us, and the last thing we want is those vultures pouncing on the evidence before we've had a chance to assess it!"

"Sorry…" Astbury did not sound at all apologetic, as he thrust a blood-stained piece of paper towards Morse, "But look! It could be a suicide letter – maybe he really did kill her and himself because he'd lost her love."

"Don't you start," Morse growled, and eyed the note with obvious distaste at the bloodstains, "Lewis…?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis quickly pulled on some latex gloves with which to safely handle the evidence, and unfolded the note, scanning it quickly; "It's just one line, sir. It says, 'I feel there's only one thing left to do. I'd sooner take my life away than live with losing you'. That's pretty clear, sir."

"Is it handwritten?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have the labs analyse it, then, just in case. Where did you find it, doctor?"

"In his right hand trouser pocket, Chief Inspector," Astbury replied, primly, rocking back on his heels and looking pleased with himself, "it concurs with my preliminary examination – that the woman was shot first and then the shooter killed himself. A fairly classic, if somewhat tragic, murder and suicide."

"I didn't see the gun in his hand, doctor," Morse said, in a low voice, "if you can prove to me that the evidence puts it there, and that he pulled the trigger both times, then I'll believe your theories. Good night."

Morse turned on his heel and headed back towards his car, ignoring the shouts of the journalists. Lewis followed, for his silver Vauxhall was parked not too far from Morse's Jaguar. Morse paused by his car.

"We won't be able to do much now until the morning," he said, in a low, quiet voice, "but something isn't right about all of this. Follow me in your car, Lewis. I need to think."

Lewis sighed, but said nothing. He had promised Val he would try to be home on time that evening to spend some time with the kids, and he had also agreed that they should cut down on unnecessary expenditure to see if they could afford a holiday later in the year. He doubted that Morse would view his beer as an 'unnecessary expenditure'. Nonetheless, he obediently followed the red Jaguar to the nearest decent pub, and bought the first round without question, used the payphone to call his wife and explain, once again, that he would be late, and then sat down to be the sounding board he knew Morse needed as much as the beer.

After a pint and a half, Morse finally stopped scowling at the table and spoke.

"There's something not right about this, Lewis," he said, at last, "it's all a bit too contrived, don't you think?"

"Like the dog walker without the dog, sir?"

"Indeed, Lewis… Mr Whittaker… he is a little bit too melodramatic."

"Far too keen to be believed, if you ask me, sir."

"Hum. Yes… and so unaffected by what he allegedly saw…"

Morse fell silent again, finished his pint, and Lewis braced himself for having to pay for another. However, the Chief Inspector seemed to take pity on him.

"Oh, let's call it a night, Lewis. Get home to your wife and remind her what you look like. We'll pick this up again in the morning."

Lewis hid his relief, as he replied; "Thank you, sir. I'll see you in the morning, then."

Morse merely grunted, as they left the pub together, and Lewis watched him walk away, towards his car. Shaking his head slightly, he climbed into his own vehicle, and gratefully headed for home.

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><p>The next morning, Lewis was surprised when Morse arrived at the station at 9:30am, only an hour after Lewis had arrived himself. However, Morse did not speak; he merely collapsed heavily into his chair and was immediately absorbed in the morning paper. Without needing to say anything, Lewis smiled to himself, got to his feet, and fetched a coffee – drop of milk, two sugars – and placed the mug on the desk. A hand emerged from behind the newspaper, picked up the mug, and disappeared behind the folds again.<p>

Sitting back down at his desk, Lewis was able to concentrate on filling in some of the backlog of Morse's paperwork. Half an hour later, the paper was still in place, when Lewis's telephone rang.

"Chief Inspector Morse's office… oh, aye… aye… okay, I'll be right down to collect it."

Lewis hung up, and glanced across at the newspaper.

"Sir, the photographs from last night have arrived, along with the preliminary pathologist's report. I'm just going down to the front desk to collect them."

An indistinct grumble emanated from behind the sheaf of print. Morse really was not a morning person. Lewis left the office quietly, and returned fifteen minutes later with a fresh coffee for each of them, and the reports. He deposited Morse's coffee on his desk, noting that the Chief Inspector had just started the crossword puzzle. That gave him at least ten minutes to read the reports.

The pathologist's report was short and to the point – Dr Astbury had concluded that the woman had died from a single bullet wound to the chest, consistent with the calibre of bullet that would have been fired from the gun recovered from the man's body. The man had died from a self-inflicted bullet wound to the right temple. Dr Astbury had commented that the matter seemed to be a straightforward murder and suicide – a tragedy, but with nothing further that required investigation.

Lewis frowned at the report. It was shorter than usual, and there were omissions that were obvious, even to him. He decided to wait and see what Morse made of it. There was a soft thump as the newspaper landed on the desk, finally tossed aside, as Morse fixed his Sergeant with a baleful look.

"Well?"

"Dr Astbury has concluded that the man murdered the woman and then committed suicide, sir."

"And do you agree with the good doctor's findings, Lewis?"

"Well… I can't think of any other explanation, sir. Except… well…"

"Well, what, Lewis?"

"Well… Dr Astbury didn't test the man's hand for gunshot residue, sir. Or at least, if he did, it's not mentioned in his report. It's a little… brief, sir."

Morse silently held out his hand; Lewis therefore carried the report over and handed it to the Chief Inspector.

"Do we have any identification on our victims yet?"

"Dr Astbury is checking their dental records and fingerprints, sir – he should be calling the results through soon."

Morse grunted, as he read the pathologist's report in silence. Lewis's 'phone rang again, and he snatched it up quickly when Morse glanced at him in irritation. He listened carefully, mumbling questions into the handset and writing down the answers carefully. Hanging up the call, he found Morse staring at him expectantly.

"We've got confirmation, sir – the woman's name is Helen Allen, aged thirty-three. She's been traced to an address of a property held in joint names. It seems that the man's name… well, sir, assuming he is the joint owner of the house, the man's name is Jonathan Whittaker."

"Whittaker? As in our witness, Whittaker?"

"Could be, sir – our witness was Mr Peter Whittaker. I've asked Clifton to dig further into the records and see if there's a connection between them. But there was a connection between the two victims – they lived together, sir. I've got the address here."

"Good. Let's go."

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><p>The drive to the house was fairly uneventful; Morse elected to drive, making his usual disparaging comments about not trusting Lewis to get them there in one piece. They eventually arrived in a fairly smart-looking estate. Morse paused outside the property in question, a well-presented four-bedroom semi-detached home with a large driveway and probably expansive gardens to the rear. A car was parked on the driveway; Lewis was already writing down the license number. Morse waited, impatiently, as Lewis took a bunch of keys from an evidence bag, recovered by forensics from Helen Allen's pocket, and opened the front door.<p>

Thankfully, the alarm system did not appear to have been switched on, and the front door was only on the latch, as if the occupiers had left in a hurry. Every instinct that Morse had was screaming at him that this was wrong.

He remarked as much to his Sergeant; "Lewis… if you were going to have a violent row with your partner, why would you travel several miles to the edge of Wytham Woods before airing your grievances? And if they only owned one car between them, how did they get there? They seem to have left in a hurry; it was a chilly night and they didn't take any coats… didn't lock the house… if you were having an argument, you'd do it at home, wouldn't you?"

"Aye, sir – my neighbours certainly do, you can hear them through the walls most Saturday nights."

"Indeed," Morse was not really listening as he glanced around the well-decorated hallway; a wide flight of stairs ran up to the second floor, while doors from the hall led into a large sitting room on one side, with a kitchen and dining room on the other.

"Right, Lewis – you take the upstairs, and I'll have a look around downstairs."

They split up to search the property; Lewis was not really sure what he was looking for, but he knew better than to ask, and simply concentrated on the task at hand, observing everything and trying to commit every detail to memory. He could hear Morse moving about downstairs. They spent over half an hour wandering around the house, pawing through the rooms. Lewis eventually came down to find Morse helping himself to Scotch from a decanter in the living room. Lewis bit back a remark; he could never fathom how his boss felt comfortable helping himself to things, despite the fact that their owners could not possibly miss them.

"What did you find out, Lewis?"

"Well," the Sergeant took a deep breath, "Whittaker and Allen appear to have had a child – a boy, from the looks of the bedroom, around the age of eight or nine I'd say. There's no sign of the kid."

"I'd deduced as much from these photographs," Morse indicated the framed prints on the mantel, "anything else?"

"It's a lovely house, sir," Lewis commented, glancing around appreciatively, "it must have cost a few bob, like. They seem like a well-off couple."

"Look into it, Lewis. And find out about the child – a well-off family like this might well have sent him to boarding school."

"Odd, isn't it, that the parents aren't married?"

"That's a rather old-fashioned view, these days, Lewis," Morse commented, dryly, "I want to know if there is a connection between Jonathan and Peter Whittaker. They're brothers, in all likelihood, but I want you to find out."

"Aye, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes. Chase up forensics – I want their report by the end of the day before Strange catches on to Astbury's conclusion that this is an open-and-shut case and decides to take us off it…"

* * *

><p>"What the hell are you playing at, Morse?"<p>

Chief Superintendent Strange was furious, and Morse suppressed a bitter sigh. No doubt Dr Astbury had made sure a copy of his report had been forwarded to Strange to ensure that Morse was kept on a leash.

"Sir?" More attempted to sound neutral.

"This is a straightforward case, Morse!" Strange exclaimed, sitting down heavily in his chair, and scowling heavily, "Now why the hell are you still poking around on it? Don't you have enough to do at the moment? Because, God knows, with all the recent staffing cuts, I'm sure I can find you something to do if you're having trouble keeping yourself occupied."

"Sir, this is anything but a straightforward case!" Morse protested, "our investigation has shown that the couple had a child together and the boy is missing; no-one has seen him since the shooting. And on top of that, I have one witness who denied knowing the victims and turns out to be the man's half-brother!"

Morse was privately glad that Lewis had been able to turn up at least some information before he had been abruptly summoned to Strange's office; it meant that he was at least half-equipped to face down the Chief Super.

"Can you prove his direct involvement?" demanded Strange.

"Not at this stage," Morse admitted, but rallied quickly, "I need more time, sir – Astbury and the others have already written off this case as a done deal. The pathology was rushed and the forensics work was shoddy. They looked at that scene and saw what they wanted to see, not what was actually there."

"And what was there, Morse? What do you think you saw that no-one else did?"

"I saw a witness who lied to my face and didn't care one jot for having apparently seen two brutal deaths. I saw a dog walker with no dog. I saw an apparently loving young couple get mysteriously travel several miles from home before allegedly having a blazing row and both ending up dead. I saw an empty house with a missing child, and I have dozens of questions without answers."

Strange frowned at him for a long moment, but Morse held his gaze defiantly. After what seemed like an eternity, Strange shook his head.

"No, Morse. Our resources are stretched thin enough at the moment without you being wrapped up in an investigation into a case that's already been concluded."

"But, sir – the missing child…"

"Can be handed over to a junior officer, Morse. I'm ordering you to close this case, and close it today, is that understood?"

Morse suppressed a growl, as he responded, as civilly as he could; "Yes, sir."

Strange gave him a hard look, and then nodded his head towards the door indicating that Morse was dismissed. Without a further word, Morse turned on his heel and stalked out. It was all he could do not to slam the door.

Storming into his office, he dropped, fuming, into his chair. He barely noticed that there was a steaming cup of tea ready and waiting for him, even as he seized up the mug. Lewis was watching him silently, looking slightly wary of Morse's temper.

"Well, Lewis, it seems that the Chief Super has been persuaded by Dr Astbury that this is a straightforward, open-and-shut case," Morse announced, at last, "I've been ordered to close the case today, and had the matter of the missing child over to a junior officer…"

Morse trailed off, and a rare, small smile crept across his face, the scowl rapidly lifting; "Lewis… how would you feel about leading the investigation into a missing child?"

"Sir?"

"Chief Superintendent Strange somehow believes that investigating the disappearance of the dead couple's child is a waste of my time. He feels that it would be better suited to a more junior officer. Well, Lewis, you're a junior officer, in line for promotion – it's about time you had some cases to your own name, isn't it?"

Lewis couldn't quite believe what he was hearing; "But what about you, sir?"

"Strange be damned, Lewis – I'm going to work out who really killed that couple, and I'll bet my monthly beer allowance it was Peter Whittaker."

"I'm not sure how you're going to prove that, sir," Lewis said, uneasily, "forensics was sketchy at best, and the pathologist recorded a verdict of murder and suicide; the coroner's inquest has been listed for tomorrow…"

"Leave that to me, Lewis. Have you turned up anything else?"

"Only one thing, sir – the car at the Whittaker-Allen place belonged to Helen Allen. According to the DVLA, Jonathan Whittaker owned a Mercedes, but it wasn't on the driveway when we visited."

"Peter Whittaker drove a Mercedes away from the scene," Morse mused, "Interesting…right, Lewis. You focus on the child; I'll find out what really happened to the parents, understood?"

"Aye, sir."

"Right. Let's go and see Whittaker. He might be able to shed some light on both matters."

* * *

><p>Peter Whittaker's house was the marked opposite of Jonathan Whittaker's. It was in a down-at-heel estate in the shadow of an imposing tower block of flats, a shabby-looking two-up, two-down affair. The paint was peeling on the front door, while the front yard was overgrown with weeds, and littered with rubbish. The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. Morse strode up to the front door, hammering on it hard. He heard someone swear, loudly, and then the door opened. Whittaker peered at him from behind the security chain, before his eyes widened slightly and he opened the door quickly.<p>

"Chief Inspector – Sergeant – come in!" he gestured, quickly, "Please excuse the mess; I've not long moved in and I'm still unpacking."

Morse noted that the hallway was completely devoid of furniture, and the carpet on the stairs appeared to be brand new. However, the scene changed when they stepped into the adjoining lounge. Morse glanced around quickly; in the chaos of the living room, it was hard to tell whether the man was packing or unpacking. Whittaker quickly cleared three chairs, and invited them to sit. Morse slumped casually into an armchair, facing Whittaker on the sofa, as Lewis perched attentively on the edge of the second armchair, notepad and pencil in hand.

"Did you have some more questions for me, Inspector?" Whittaker asked, keenly, "I thought you would have closed the case by now – I thought my description of events would have cleared up any mystery. Do you need me to tell the story again?"

"No, thank you, Mr Whittaker – I've read it several times already in the local papers," Morse replied, dryly, "I was hoping that you would be able to tell me why you didn't think to inform us that the male victim was your half-brother, Jonathan Whittaker?"

"Because I didn't know, that's why," something shifted in Whittaker's expression, as his eyes narrowed and his voice hardened, "Jonathan and I weren't particularly close. I hadn't seen him for years; I simply didn't recognise him. It was only when I read about it in the papers that I realised who he was."

"And the dead woman – Helen Allen – did you know her as well?"

"No. As I said, Jonathan and I weren't close. He wouldn't have introduced us."

Lewis glanced up from scribbling down notes, and muttered a quick, "Sir?"

Morse frowned, not liking being interrupted; "What is it, Lewis?"

"The picture on the mantle there, sir," Lewis pointed with his pen, "if I'm not mistaken, sir, that's Helen Allen."

"So it is…" Morse got to his feet, and picked up the framed photograph, "and I believe, Mr Whittaker, that this is you with your arm around her…"

Whittaker gave Lewis a poisonous glare, and then turned to look up at Morse, who was standing over him.

"Alright," Whittaker grunted, after a moment, "I did know Helen. It was a long time ago. She and I were engaged. We broke up when she met my half-brother and realised that he was the one with the good looks and the money. He stole her away from me."

"And that made you angry, didn't it?" Morse prodded him.

"Of course it did!" Whittaker snapped at him, "Why do you think I haven't spoken to the bastard for the past ten years?"

"But then you came to Oxford," Morse was telling the story himself now, making the deductive leaps quickly, "you saw the luxury your brother and your ex-fiancée were living in, when this was all you could afford. You got angry, all over again, and you decided to take revenge. You got them to meet you at Wytham Woods that night…"

"And did what, Morse? Persuaded him to shoot her and then himself? Who's going to believe that?" Whittaker had dropped all pretence at politeness, as his tone went cold and he leaned back in his armchair, fixing Morse with a stare; "You can suspect all you like, Morse, but everyone knows my half-brother killed Helen and then himself."

"What happened to their son?" Lewis asked, quickly.

"What son?" Whittaker shot back, folding his arms, "I didn't know they had one."

"I suspect that you do, Mr Whittaker," Morse replied, tersely, "Where is the child?"

"I don't know anything about a child," Whittaker replied, bluntly, "now, you can either arrest me or leave, Morse. I've assisted with your enquiries and told you what happened in detail; I am a witness to an unfortunate event, and will not be accused in my own home."

Morse suppressed his anger at the man's sneering tone. It was true; he had no evidence to back up what he was saying. He knew, beyond reason, that Whittaker had somehow killed Helen Allen and Jonathan Whittaker and staged it to look like suicide, but he had no hope of proving it without a confession or some damning new evidence that he knew Strange would not allow him to expend the time or the resources searching for. Whittaker seemed to know what he was thinking, and gave a bark of a laugh.

"Get out, Morse," he said, contemptuously, "get out while you've still got some shreds of dignity left."

With little other choice, and several unanswered questions relating to the missing child and the absent Mercedes, Morse beckoned to Lewis. The two of them left the house in silence. They climbed into Morse's car, and the Chief Inspector took a deep breath, fighting to keep calm.

"Damned if that man was unpacking; it looked more like he was packing up to leave," he said, at length, starting up the engine and pulling away, "Lewis, find out if Jonathan Whittaker left a will, and, if so, who would benefit by it. Did you see anything that stood out to you in there?"

"You mean aside from the photograph, sir?" Lewis frowned, "I saw one of the boxes had a dolly in it – some kids toys, like – but they looked like toys for a little girl."

"Yes. I saw that too – but no other sign of the child."

"Could be at school, sir."

"Indeed. Look into it, Lewis – I wasn't about to put the question to that lying bastard. Anything else stand out to you?"

Lewis racked his brains, but drew a total blank; "No, sir, sorry. What did you see?"

"A complete absence of dog hair, Lewis… no leashes, dog toys, dog bowls… there was nothing in that house that suggested a dog has ever lived there."

"The dog walker with no dog… aye, sir, you're right – he didn't even ask us if we'd found the dog, did he?"

"No, he did not," Morse confirmed, as he drove, "He did it, Lewis, I know he did it."

"But… how, sir? And why?"

"If I could answer those two questions, Lewis, I would have arrested Whittaker on the spot," Morse growled, "Strange told me to close the case today. What time is it?"

"Ten past two, sir. After lunchtime."

Morse ignored the hint; "Well, then, that means that 'today' isn't quite over yet. I'm going to drop you back at the station; find out all you can about Peter Whittaker. I want to take another look at the crime scene…"

* * *

><p>Morse returned to the station nearly three hours later, a dark expression fixed on his face and just the slightest whiff of beer about him. Lewis glanced up at him and said nothing, but just went to make the coffee.<p>

"I've done some digging, sir," he ventured, at last, when it became clear that Morse had no intention of divulging where he had been all afternoon, "Peter Whittaker has lived in that house for the past eleven years. You were right, sir – he was packing up to go, not unpacking. But get this, sir – he used to own the place jointly with Helen Allen… except that she was actually called Helen Whittaker."

"She was his wife?"

"Apparently so, sir," Lewis looked pleased with himself for having uncovered this fact, "and there's more, sir. They had a daughter together – Jennifer Whittaker. She'd be ten years old by now."

Morse grunted in acknowledgement; this fact was less interesting to him; "What about the will, Lewis?"

"Jonathan Whittaker didn't leave a will. I've spoken to that solicitor friend of yours, sir – he says in the absence of any other claimant, the estate would go to their son and to Peter Whittaker. He's already taken out letters of administration."

"He's the executor of their estate?" Morse exclaimed, "He didn't waste any time… he was packing up to move into their house, wasn't he?"

"Looks like it, sir," Lewis agreed, "and there's one other thing, sir. I've checked with the Courts – there's no evidence that Helen ever divorced Peter. They were still married, sir – probably explains why she never married Jonathan."

"Indeed," Morse mused, "what about the daughter? Helen's first child…"

"Yes, sir. It looks like she stayed with her dad… but… I've checked with the school. She hasn't been seen for a couple of days. The school says they called her dad and was told she's staying with family down South for a couple of weeks."

"Any trace of this alleged family?"

"No sir," Lewis shook his head, sadly; "I think she's gone missing as well, sir. Two missing kiddies…"

Morse, for all his usual gruffness, could not help but hear to note of sadness in his Sergeant's voice, and had to remind himself that the young man was a father as well.

"Well, there's little we can do without a formal missing persons report, but keep looking into it, Lewis," the Chief Inspector told him, and then gave a loud sigh; "damn it, Lewis… we've no leads, no evidence, and, as far as everyone else seems to be concerned, no bloody case. Worst, we've no time – Strange is going to pull the plug at the end of the day…"

His musings were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Lewis gave him an apologetic look, and snatched up the telephone quickly; "Chief Inspector… oh, hello, sir… y…yes, he's… yes sir…"

Morse watched as Lewis winced, holding the handset away from his ear as the caller bellowed down the telephone at the Sergeant. Morse was getting to his feet even as Lewis was putting down the phone, his expression a mix of sympathy and trepidation. Morse spared him the discomfort.

"I take it Strange wants to see me?"

"Right away, sir…"

"Fine. Wait here for me, Lewis, we'll probably be going straight out when I come back."

"Aye, sir."

Lewis did not need to ask where they would be going – Morse's inference was obvious.

* * *

><p>"Threatening witnesses now, Morse? This is unacceptable, even for you!" Strange snapped at him, ignoring the young PC who was delivering the customary tea and biscuits, "Peter Whittaker wants to make a formal complaint about you – it was only because I told him that the case was being closed that I was able to talk him down."<p>

"You can't close this case, sir," Morse protested, vehemently, "not while there are two missing children still out there somewhere…"

"And I told you to hand that over to a more junior officer!"

"I did, sir. Sergeant Lewis is in charge of the investigation."

Strange gave him a long-suffering look; "Under your incessant supervision, no doubt. No, Morse, it will not do. Dr Astbury is a capable young man and has given his findings. The coroner will record a verdict of murder-suicide."

"I'll be attending, sir. I'll object. There are too many loose ends and that witness is lying."

"You can't prove it, Morse. I am ordering you to drop this case and drop it now. You will not attend the Coroner's Court tomorrow, and if you do, I'll have your badge. That will be all, Morse, do you hear me?"

"There are two missing children involved here, sir – a ten year old girl and an eight year old boy. We can't simply give up on them!"

"You will hand their cases over to the missing persons team as I thought I had clearly ordered you to do earlier," Strange told him, firmly, "you will not have any further contact with Peter Whittaker in relation to this matter, and you will not use Lewis as your proxy to disobey my orders further, Morse."

"You cannot simply close the investigation," Morse tried again, making a great effort to control his temper, "Sir – of all things – we have a witness closely tied with the victims and who stood to benefit by their deaths. His reason for being in the area at the time of the incident was a contrived lie. His own daughter, and her half-brother, are both missing. There are too many unanswered questions here, and you know it. You cannot, in good conscience, simply close the investigation and expect me to walk away!"

Strange sighed, fixing Morse with a steady gaze.

"We do not have the time or resources to investigate deaths where the coroner makes a ruling on the circumstance that leaves no room for suspicion," he said, eventually, in an even tone, "the higher-ups will have my head on a plate if they found out I let a senior Chief Inspector continue investigating a case that was, to all intents and purposes, an open-and-shut matter… What does Lewis think?"

Morse blinked; he should have anticipated that question, as Strange seemed to be asking it more often. Morse knew the young man was in line for sitting his Inspector's exams and seeking promotion, and that Strange was encouraging that, but… and there was the lingering 'but'. Morse had no desire to lose Lewis any sooner than necessary.

He took a deep breath; "Lewis… well, Lewis is concerned about the children, sir. As am I. As to the circumstances around the deaths… well, he has the same questions that I do, though he can't see what could have happened…"

"Go on, then, Morse – tell me your theory."

"I think Whittaker either drove them out there or had them meet him. There was only one car in the car park and that was a Mercedes that Whittaker drove away. Jonathan Whittaker owned a Mercedes that we now can't trace. Peter Whittaker was consumed with rage, jealousy and greed for his brother's wealth. He killed Helen first, possibly because she refused to come back to him as her husband. He then executed Jonathan, and put the gun in his hand to make it look like suicide. He planted a fake suicide note in Jonathan's pocket. Then he called us in, and told us a pack of lies – most of which we've already disproved – except for the important one… which is what really happened out in Wytham Woods that night."

Strange stared at him for a long moment, and sighed; "What do you expect me to do, Morse? The coroner will record his verdict in the morning and I cannot allow you to embarrass this station by objecting to the verdict or trying to stall for time. Nor can I allow you to waste your time – and Lewis's – by continuing to actively investigate the matter."

Morse sighed, feeling deflated. Strange was right, and despite his reservations about the verdict, he had no evidence to prove anything else. He considered his response, and met Strange's gaze.

"At least let me keep the file open, sir," Morse said, at length, "let me leave it under the active investigation tab, and I'll keep an eye on things. Sooner or later, some new evidence will come to light – or, even better, one or both of those missing children will be found. They may have witnessed something… Whittaker's the guilty party here, I know it. Don't give up on those children, sir."

As Strange sagged back in his chair, Morse knew he had won. It was a hollow victory, but it meant that he could at least keep the matter open, and monitor the missing persons investigation… and hope… beyond all hope…

"Alright, Morse, have it your way," Strange sighed, raising a hand in submission, "keep the file open, if it makes you happy. But stay out of the way of the missing persons investigation, stay away from the coroner, and stay away from Peter Whittaker until you have some solid evidence approved by me, understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Chief Superintendent Strange watched as Morse left his office, and shook his head slowly. The man was the best detective he had, and one of the most difficult. If anyone could get a result, it was Morse – he simply never gave up. With another sigh, he reached for his cup of tea – cold, already. Oh well… turning to the piles of paperwork on his desk, Strange had soon pushed the matter from his mind.

* * *

><p>Lewis had driven to the pub in Morse's car. Morse had chosen one of his favourite pubs; an out-of-the way old inn beside the Oxford canal, in a picturesque setting with a beer garden to the rear, overlooking the waters. It was quiet, as it was still early evening, and there were not too many people about. Morse sat in his favourite spot, out in the beer garden, in a quiet corner to one side near the building, beneath the shade of an old, twisted oak tree. Lewis wordlessly fetched the drinks, deciding to indulge in a pint for himself for a change. He knew he would be driving back and could only have the one, but in the face of Morse's despondent mood, he was not sure a glass of orange juice would be sufficient solace.<p>

Morse had drained his pint and was half-way through the second one – Lewis was barely a quarter of the way through his – when the Chief Inspector finally spoke.

"We'll never get him, Lewis."

Startled from a reverie, Lewis glanced across at Morse quickly, as the older man stared out across the canal, a distant look on his face.

"Sir?" he prompted.

"I know that he did it – but we'll never prove it. One of those children – or both of them – saw something, I'm sure of it. And I'll bet he's killed them, but I can't prove a damned thing," Morse said, bitterly, pausing only to take a mouthful of ale, "now he'll be living the high life on his dead brother's estate, and he's laughing at us, Lewis. He's laughing at me."

"He'll make a mistake one day, sir," Lewis tried to be reassuring, "those kiddies… well, I'm sure they're not dead."

Morse was not to be placated; "Don't get soft on me, Lewis – just because you're a family man. No, those children are dead and probably buried somewhere in Wytham Woods. Unless a body turns up, Peter Whittaker is free to do as he damn well pleases."

"We'll keep an eye on him, sir. Soon enough, he'll get what he deserves," Lewis responded, too used to Morse's moods to take much stock in his comments, "everyone does, in the end."

"With any luck, Lewis," Morse conceded, slightly, "It's… it's a good beer, this. Nice pub, too…"

Lewis nodded in agreement, knowing that he did not need to speak. And, as such, they merely sat, and drank, and watched the sun go down, knowing that there was nothing they could do to prevent the travesty of justice to happen on the morrow. Peter Whittaker would walk away free, and his brother, Jonathan, would be branded a murderer and a suicide, his name and memory forever tarnished.

* * *

><p>Moths passed by, and turned into years. Sometime later, a little older, a lot wiser, and grieving more than he ever thought possible, the newly-promoted Inspector Lewis stood again in the grounds of the pub. Val, his wife, was stood at his side, her arm resting lightly on his elbow, a comforting, solid presence. In his hands he held a small container. With great care, he handed this to the corpulent man who stood nearby, waiting to receive it.<p>

"Sir," he said, quietly.

"Lewis," Strange inclined his head slightly.

Lewis removed his black suit jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the waiting shovel. The small, very select group of onlookers stood in reverential silence as he worked quickly, clearing the weeds from a patch of the ground, before cutting out a square of grass and digging down to a depth of about a foot. The twisted oak curled out above him, and he was occasionally forced to dig around a root, working as close as he was to the tree. Eventually, he straightened up, and Strange held out the box to him.

Lewis took it gently, swallowing hard against the turmoil of emotions. He carried it over to the hole he had dug, and placed it carefully in the ground.

"Just like you wanted, sir," he whispered, quietly, "no service, no memorial, no prayers or fancy words. Just this. You, and us, and a pub, eh? … Rest in peace, sir."

He straightened up, reached for the shovel, and began to replace the earth he had just excavated. If anyone watching saw a tear slide down his face, he hoped that they would charitably call it sweat from the exertions, or at least glance the other way. He carefully replaced the patch of grass, and straightened up, wiping his hand across his eyes and brow, as Strange offered him a sad smile, nodding his head approvingly.

Someone else approached; a woman, in a black leather trench coat. She was carefully balancing three pints in her hands. Lewis reached out and took one, but she held out a second one towards him as well; "The ground looks dry, mate. You should water him in a bit, I reckon."

"I think he'd like that," Dr Hobson agreed, as she and Val joined them.

"Aye," Lewis said, hoarsely, "aye, he would, at that."

He went back over to the freshly dug earth, took a quick sip from his pint, and then slowly, carefully, he poured the full pint over the ground.

"Have a drink on us, sir," he murmured, and then straightened up.

Retrieving his jacket, he slipped it on, placed his arm around the waist of his wife, and went back to the wake. Behind them, they left all that remained beneath the old oak in the beer garden – Morse's final resting place.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: You're getting the whole story in two long chapters, because I'm having a few issues with my laptop (again). Sorry for the inconvenience!_

_My thanks to WhyAye, who told me about a year ago that this was a good idea for a story. It would have been a collaboration, had I not been forced to stay offline for so long... so, you have both my thanks and my apologies, WhyAye!_

* * *

><p>PART 2: Beyond This Life<p>

* * *

><p>Sergeant James Hathaway sipped at his pint slowly; taking care not to make any unnecessary noise. He studiously avoided looking at the other two occupants of the table. Inspector Robbie Lewis was slumped in his chair, staring pensively at his drink, one hand wrapped loosely around the pint glass that was barely a quarter-full, the other hand resting listlessly on the beer-tacky table they were huddled around. Lewis was well into his fifth pint, compared to Hathaway's second one. The third occupant was Inspector Ally Hogan, who was sitting with her head in her hands, elbows on the table, gazing blankly into an empty glass. Dr Hobson had been unable to attend this year, due to a family event, and, despite the melancholy atmosphere, Hathaway knew that she would rather have been here tonight than anywhere else. Hathaway knew, from experience, what would happen next.<p>

Sure enough, Lewis drained the rest of his pint, and Hogan immediately collected the two empties and brought back two full pints from the bar. Hathaway was content to nurse his second drink as the two Inspectors silently raised their glasses in a wordless toast, and drank deeply. Hathaway held his breath; they went through this ritual only once per year; and always on the same day. They had found the same old, quiet, real ale pub down by the picturesque Oxford canal, had secured a table near the window, and had been drinking solidly since their arrival. It was always on this day that they did this, and Hathaway, into his third year of the ritual, finally understood what was happening, and why, and had learned quickly how to predict how the rest of the evening would go.

The two Inspectors had barely said a word since they had entered the pub. Hathaway had come to expect this. He knew, now, on the sixth pint, one of them would eventually speak. And, whoever chose to speak first would essentially decide the tone of the evening; a slide into miserable depression and melancholy, or a happy celebration… either way, it would involve a lot of drinking and Hathaway needed to stay sober enough to make sure that his superiors made it home safely at the end of the night, no matter what state they were in. The first year had gone well, the mood eventually lifting from this sombre silence into cheerful banter. The second year, last year… well, there had been a tough case going on at the time, and it was only Hathaway's intervention that had prevented a massive bar fight from breaking out.

Lewis set his glass down on the table again. Hathaway could see, from his slightly glazed expression, that the Inspector was already half-cut, and he was almost half-way through his sixth pint already. Hogan was the same, no doubt as a result of how quickly they had been consuming the drinks. The silence seemed to stretch out between them. Lewis drew in a deep breath, blinked, and looked at Hogan. Hathaway tensed. This could be it.

"Do you…do you remember…?"

Words seemed to fail him, and he failed to finish the question, lapsing into the morose silence again. Hathaway took a steadying breath, and sipped at his pint again, waiting patiently. Hogan picked up her drink and leaned back in her chair, studying the liquid within the pint glass, almost as if she could gain some deep philosophical insight from the amber depths.

"I remember the Kelly Hinton case," she said, quietly, at long last.

Hathaway tensed up again; he had not heard this story before, and that did not bode well. He had no way to predict which way this was going to take the evening. He really wanted it to be a good one, not like last year; he vividly recalled trying to cover up in front of the Chief Super exactly why he and two of the most senior Inspectors from her station had almost been arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour and causing an affray.

"Hinton…?" Lewis looked a little blank, as he blearily turned to look at her.

"Aye," Hogan nodded, with exaggerated care, as if she were struggling to keep her balance even while remaining seated, "Kelly Hinton. Evil-minded cow, that one…"

She trailed off, and Hathaway resisted the urge to chew his fingernails, he felt so on edge. Lewis and Hogan appeared to have no inkling as to the level of his discomfort, as he waited to see what would unfold. Slowly, realisation seemed to dawn in Lewis's eyes.

"Was she the one… the dominatrix?"

Hathaway hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't that. Mid-sip, he choked on his pint, coughing. Lewis frowned at him slightly, as if only just realising that his Sergeant was present. Hogan did not even notice the interruption.

"Aye, that's her," she confirmed, "she killed one of her clients during a bondage session and tried to cover it up as a suicide. The hanging part I could believe, but I've never seen anyone whip themselves before making the jump."

Slightly stunned, Hathaway could only listen, and wonder if this tale had a happy outcome. Lewis turned a wide-eyed look on Hogan.

"Didn't she… you and…?"

"Now you're with me," Hogan waved her pint at him, nodding again and smirking slightly.

Hathaway leaned forward in interest, resting his elbows on the table. Whichever way the evening went, this sounded like it could be an interesting story. Hogan saw his slight movement, and blinked at him owlishly, as if seeing him for the first time.

"You see," she said, in a conspiratorial tone, now addressing herself to the Sergeant, "I was a Sergeant meself at the time, an' probably younger than you are now, Jim, if you can imagine such a thing! I was working undercover for Vice, trying to crack a serious prostitution and human trafficking ring; Kelly Hinton, or "Minxy" as she was known professionally, had appeared in some porn videos using young women – girls, really – brought into the country illegally. I was… well… at the time… I was… well, as I say, I was younger then…"

"She was pretending to be a fellow dominatrix," Lewis suddenly spoke up, covering Hogan's uncharacteristic embarrassment, "trying to get in on the act, weren't you?"

"Leather, whips and chains," Hogan was almost grinning now, and Hathaway relaxed, already enjoying the story, "and – my God – those bloody corsets!"

"We couldn't blow her cover," Lewis explained, leaning forwards, "so Chief Super Strange said we had to bring her in on the investigation. And the only way to do it without raising any suspicions was, well…"

"They came in and arrested me for soliciting!" Hogan announced, banging her half-empty glass down on the table for emphasis, "Chief Inspector Morse had to drag me through Thames Valley station in handcuffs… I was wearing thigh high leather boots, stockings, a tiny leather mini-skirt, and the tightest corset on God's green earth. I can still remember the wolf-whistles and cat-calls from the lads around the station…!"

"It gets worse," Lewis paused to take a long drink, even as Hogan seemed to be working out whose round it was next, "we suspected that our victim was part of the gang doing the trafficking – a courier who distributed the dodgy videos and collected cash from the dealers. So Hogan had this bloody bright idea that she should introduce someone reliable enough to fill the dead mans shoes, and find out where the videos and the cash were going – using marked notes, that kind of thing…"

Hathaway could see where this was going, but he knew it was important that he remained quiet at this stage, not willing to break the fragile mood of good cheer that was slowly creeping into the atmosphere at the table.

"And because it was Morse's murder investigation, he wanted in on the whole investigation, so despite my Inspector wanting one of the Vice boys to do it, Morse bullied Strange into letting his man do the job," Hogan explained.

Hathaway couldn't help himself; "You, sir?"

"Aye, me," Lewis groaned, recalling the incident well, "there I was, dressed in dodgy denims and a leather jacket with me hair dyed black, and trying to flog these filthy videos at all the knocking shops in Birmingham and Oxfordshire, taking the cash, swapping it for marked bills and circulating the painted money back into the organisation…"

"Eventually we had enough to make the bust," Hogan picked up the story as Lewis finished his drink and immediately went to get another, "the only trouble was, it was a joint operation with the boys from Birmingham, where most of the gang were operating, and while we were over there at the time, nobody thought to tell them who we were… Lewis and I had met to exchange some cash for marked bills. We didn't know that the sting was on, and someone had followed me from the train station… well, to cut a long story short, we were arrested, and with no ID, we were slung in a cell together and charged with numerous offences, including attempting to impersonate police officers, and a spurious charge of public indecency!"

Lewis returned to the table with three drinks, and flopped into his chair, in time to hear the end of the story. He gave a dry chuckle.

"Inspector Morse had to be dragged away from his case work to come down to Birmingham to the cells to identify us," he recalled, fondly, "trouble was, it took them a while to track down which pub he was in, and even then… we were in that cell for, what, a good eighteen hours?"

"Aye," Hogan agreed, "and it was bloody freezing, so, Lewis, all gentleman-like, gives me his jacket… except that, of course, with us having been in there for so long… rumours abounded… especially when our lads heard about the public indecency charge…"

"All untrue," Lewis said, hastily, as Hathaway could not suppress a snicker of amusement.

"Morse was not best impressed," Hogan smiled with remembered amusement, "but he was so uncomfortable about the whole thing, he just didn't know where to look… he kept trying to apologise to us for forgetting to tell the Birmingham lads who we were and why we were there, but he just couldn't look at me at all…"

"You know what I think?" Lewis leaned forward, as if he was about to share a big secret.

"What?"

"I think it was the spiky dog collar you were wearing."

Hogan clapped her hand to her mouth and bit down on her laughter; "Oh, Lord! I'd forgotten about that… poor old Morse, I made him so uncomfortable!"

"It was one of the few times he paid for the drinks, as I recall," Lewis smiled wistfully, and then his expression became sombre, "speaking of which – shall we?"

"Yeah," Hogan nodded, quickly, and took a deep breath.

Hathaway stood, lifting his drink, as the two Inspectors managed to get to their feet. Hogan picked up one of the three pints Lewis had just purchased, as Lewis picked up the other two. They made their way outside, watching the sun set over the countryside, reflecting off the waters of the canal. The beer garden was lovely, and fairly deserted. In one corner, to the side of the pub, an ancient oak tree grew, casting shade across the slightly overgrown grass, its gnarled and twisted truck looking knotted and pocked with age. The three of them stood before the great tree, as Lewis raised his glass.

"To Inspector Morse," he said, quietly, "Rest in peace, sir – this one's for you. Enjoy."

The three police officers toasted and drank, before Lewis poured the third pint slowly over the ground around the roots of the old tree. This had been one of Morse's favourite pubs, and, at Lewis's suggestion and with the consent of the landlord, Morse's ashes were interred in a patch of earth between the massive roots of the old tree. It had become a tradition for Lewis to return to the spot each year, on the anniversary of Morse's death, after Lewis's return to Oxford. Hogan had immediately joined him, and Hathaway had been honoured to be invited along as well. They finished their pints in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Lewis was left holding an empty glass. He stared into it, as if considering what to do next. The answer was fairly obvious.

"Hathaway, lad, it's your round. And when you come back, I'll tell you about the time I crashed Morse's car into a tree…"

* * *

><p>The next morning, Lewis was as glad as ever that he had thought ahead and booked a days' leave. Chief Superintendent Innocent had granted his request without hesitation, knowing the reason behind it. He rolled over in bed, and was not surprised to discover that he was still wearing the remnants of his suit from the previous day – the trousers and shirt, the latter of which was half unbuttoned. His tie, jacket and shoes would – hopefully – be around somewhere.<p>

Groaning, he managed to pull himself over to the edge of the bed and peered blearily at the alarm clock. It was approaching midday already; though he had no idea what time he had pitched into bed that morning. Closing his eyes for a moment only registered the thumping pain in his head and the thick, sour taste in his mouth. He cracked his eye open again; there was a glass of water was on his bedside cabinet. Knowing that he didn't have that much foresight, he decided that some kind soul must have placed it there for him. He very gradually managed to sit up, waiting for the nausea to subside and the room to stop spinning. Reaching for the glass, he picked it up and swirled the liquid around as he closed his eyes and leaned back. Taking a hesitant sip, he shuddered at the bitter taste; whoever had placed the glass there had obviously dissolved some form of remedy in there. Eventually, with small sips, he managed to drain the glass, an effort which took nearly half an hour. Finally, he was able to lift his head without feeling like it was exploding. Moving slowly, he got to his feet, scrubbed his hands over his face, and staggered towards the bedroom door. Stepping out into the living room, he paused, confused.

The lounge was immaculate – not a bottle in sight. Lewis was sure that they had come back in the early hours and carried on drinking; he had some vague recollections at least. A noise from the kitchen made him turn slightly, still not completely with it. Lewis squinted in disbelief as Hathaway stepped out of the kitchen, obviously alerted by the sounds of movement. Hathaway raised one finger to his lips, and then pointed to the settee. Lewis was just about able to make out a shapeless, black mass heaped on the cushions.

"Coffee, sir?" Hathaway said, quietly.

"Aye," Lewis managed to croak out, and winced as his own voice sounded far too loud.

Hathaway made no effort to hide his smirk, as he ducked back into the kitchen. Lewis stumbled over to one of his armchairs and sank into it slowly, mindful of his aching head and fragile body. He managed to put his feet up on the coffee table and slumped back in the chair, nursing his head with one hand in an effort to hold it together. A groan from the settee caught his attention, and he stared at the black heap as it began to move.

"Uh…" it said.

Lewis stared at it, quizzically. Slowly, a head came up, and turned, peering at him over a leather-clad shoulder. It was only then that Lewis realised that it was Inspector Hogan, fully clothed, still in her coat, who had been slumped face-down on the sofa.

They stared at each other vacantly for what seemed like a long time, each trying to work out where they were, what had happened and why the other person was there, before Hogan gave a low moan and slumped back down on the sofa.

"God have mercy," she groaned, "my head…"

Lewis made a noise of agreement, as Hathaway reappeared, bearing three mugs of coffee. He handed one to Lewis, deposited one on the floor near Hogan, and dropped into the other armchair, still smirking at the Inspector's pale face and the tremor in his hands as he tried to drink the coffee without spilling it down himself.

"Was… was that you? With the water?" Lewis managed to say, thickly, as if he couldn't control his tongue properly.

Hathaway merely inclined his head slightly; "Feeling a little delicate, are we, sir?"

"Keep your ruddy voice down, will you?" moaned a voice from deep within the cushions of the settee.

Grinning openly now, Hathaway took a mouthful of his coffee, as Lewis tried to remember something – anything – that would be causing the Sergeant's amusement, aside from seeing his superior officers a wreck of their former selves. However, Lewis was struggling to remember anything that had happened before he had woken up in bed less than an hour ago. All he could say for certain was that he had been born, then he probably went to school, he hopefully still had a job with the police, and he had definitely had too much to drink last night.

"Oh, Lord – let me die."

Hogan was clearly suffering as much as Lewis was. He raised the mug of coffee in a mock toast; "I'll drink to that."

"Bloody hell – don't mention drink."

Easing herself up onto her elbows, she caught Hathaway's amused look and gave him a glare of disgust, twisting around to lie on her back, flinging one arm over her eyes; "Where the hell am I?"

"It's Inspector Lewis's flat, sir."

Lewis made a show of looking around; "This is where I live?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"What in God's name am I doing here?" Hogan mumbled, "No – wait – I forgot my address, didn't I?"

"You usually do when you've had a skin full, sir. I thought the settee would be more comfortable than the driveway..."

"The driveway…? Oh, don't – I'm not sober enough yet."

Hathaway settled back in his armchair, and drank his coffee. The Christian 'Good Samaritan' within him was satisfied that he had made sure the two officers had got back safely and without incident. However, a small part of him – the part that had sulked at having to try to stay semi-sober all night – was now enjoying watching the shared misery of a terrible hangover. And there was still some fun to be had when the initial fog wore off with the clarifying effect of copious amounts of caffeine, and memories returned…

* * *

><p>The following morning, Hathaway arrived at the station bright and early. He had stayed with Lewis and Hogan at the flat until early evening. Having persuaded the two senior officers that they were in no danger of imminent death, and that it would be a good idea to eat something, Hathaway had gone home to sleep, just as Hogan was suggesting a 'hair of the dog' remedy. Turning on his computer, Hathaway made himself some tea, reviewed his e-mails, filed a couple of reports, and was almost on top of things when the door opened and Lewis arrived. Hathaway glanced surreptitiously at the clock; it was half past ten.<p>

Lewis carefully lowered himself into his chair, and avoided the questioning gaze of his sergeant. He was still feeling somewhat the worse for wear, and it had been a really bad idea to allow Hogan to persuade him that 'a couple of beers' would help to ease their hangovers. He switched on the computer, entered his password, and turned his attention to the post while the machine booted up. He flicked through the assorted envelopes, until he came to one that made his heart skip a beat.

Hathaway, who had got up to make some more tea, crossed the room and placed a steaming mug on Lewis's desk, as the Inspector slumped back in his chair, staring at the envelope in his hand.

"Sir?" Hathaway frowned, seeing the slight tremor in Lewis's hand.

"It's… it's addressed to Chief Inspector Morse…" Lewis held up the envelope, which was marked 'private and confidential', so it had not been sorted with the regular mail.

Intrigued, Hathaway watched as Lewis slit open the envelope, and pulled out a single sheet of paper, and read the contents, a slight frown of concentration furrowing his brow. Hathaway watched as Lewis seemed to read the letter several times, and then, impertinently, the Sergeant took a risk, and held out his hand.

"May I, sir?"

To his surprise, Lewis handed over the letter without protest or comment, staring distantly at the far wall. Hathaway read the letter quickly.

_Dear Inspector Morse,_

_Several years ago you investigated the deaths of Jonathan Whittaker and Helen Allen. __The case should never have been closed. Jonathan never did what they said he did in the papers. Helen told me so, in my dream. She said it would interest you to dig up under the lavender in her garden and lay the poor soul properly to rest. _

_Jonathan never did it. Peter did. _

_Please, Inspector. Y__ou must reopen the case. _

_X_

Hathaway scanned the note again; it was handwritten but the text was printed in block capitals, a blue biro on plain white writing paper. Hathaway could not make out any watermarks or stains on the paper, and there was nothing he could discern from the writing.

"Do you know anything about this, sir? The case referred to?"

"Aye…"

Lewis gave him a brief summary of the Whittaker-Allen case, as Hathaway listened with rapt attention. There was not much to tell; the case would have seemed straightforward, except that it was complicated by a lying witness, two missing children and some vague suspicions from Morse that things were not quite right.

"So the case was never closed, then?"

"No," Lewis shook his head, slowly, "Morse persuaded Chief Superintendent Strange to keep it open. Have someone pull the file from the records and send a team down to the old Whittaker-Allen address."

"The Chief Super won't like it, sir…"

"We may have a lead on an open missing persons case, Jim," Lewis said, patiently, holding up the letter, "those kids were never found…"

"No-one searched the garden at the time, sir?"

"Oh, we searched, all right," Lewis sighed, "but we couldn't get a warrant to dig it up… now we can."

* * *

><p>As it turned out, the warrant was unnecessary, despite being a procedural requirement. Lewis stared at the house and tried to reconcile it with the picture he had stored in his memory. The immaculate tarmac driveway was now cracked and broken with potholes, sprouting with weeds. The flowerbeds were overgrown and knotted with brambles, while the windows and door were grilled with metal security grating. 'For Sale' signs from three different estate agents were posted by the front door.<p>

It had taken Lewis nearly half an hour to persuade Chief Superintendent Innocent to allow him to delve into the old case file and dig up the garden. Thankfully, he and Hathaway were between cases, and he had persuaded his superior on the basis that it was better for them all if they had something to do.

"The house was repossessed by the mortgage company five years ago, sir," Hathaway reported, referring to his notepad, "Peter Whittaker had numerous debts – two mortgages, several unsecured loans, half-a-dozen credit cards and probably more besides. The house was in negative equity when he was evicted."

"Where did he go?"

"He registered with the local authority as unintentionally homeless, and they re-housed him for a short while, but he was evicted again for non-payment of rent," Hathaway responded, "there's no record as to where he went; it was recorded that he was suspected to be street homeless."

"Jonathan Whittaker was extremely well off," Lewis recalled, "what happened to the money?"

"I'm tying to find that out now, sir. Forensics are in the back garden with a couple of our boys, digging some test holes."

"Let us know if they find anything – I'm going to take a look around inside."

Lewis did not hear Hathaway's acknowledgement, as he approached the secured front door. A contractor from the security company had already been by, opened it up, and left the keys with them for the purposes of their investigation. The mortgage company which now owned the property had raised no objection to their search.

Stepping inside the shadowy interior, Lewis recognised all the signs of a squatter's haven; the place was filthy, filled with dirt and litter, and graffiti had been daubed on all of the walls. In amongst the litter, Lewis observed hypodermic needles, and was very careful to watch where he stepped. The house smelled rank; years of neglect, decay and rot had given the air a tangible, choking feeling. Moving cautiously through the property, it became obvious to Lewis that Peter Whittaker had, indeed, fallen on hard times before his eviction; most of the furniture was gone, and Lewis doubted the man had taken it with him when the bailiffs had come knocking.

He spent some time moving around the house, re-familiarising himself with the layout, his memory haunting him as he recalled standing and talking with Chief Inspector Morse in this room, how he had searched in that room, what he had found out and reported, all those years ago…

A sudden noise made him jump, and, somewhat embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming, he turned to see Hathaway standing in the doorway of the former living room. The Sergeant's expression was grim.

"Sir? We've found something, and you're going to want to see this…"

* * *

><p>The skeleton lay in a shallow grave, and it was a sorry sight. Lewis could see, straight away, that it was too small to be an adult, and he knew, without needing any evidence, that this was one of the missing children.<p>

"Can you tell if it's male or female?" he asked, crouching beside the grave.

"Not yet," Dr Laura Hobson shook her head, "hard to tell when they're pre-pubescent, I'm afraid – the hip bones haven't fully formed, and that's our usual clue."

It had taken the pathologist less than half an hour to reach them after the body had been discovered, and this had given Lewis all the excuse he needed to call in forensics and have the whole house and garden searched. He did not expect to find anything – any evidence would probably have been destroyed years ago – but it was worth a try.

"Can you tell how old it is?" Lewis asked, "at the time, the boy was eight and the girl was ten…"

"It could be a different child, Lewis," Hobson said, but she did not sound convinced.

"No. Not here – not at this house," Lewis shook his head, "Jim – have forensics search the rest of the garden for a second body, just in case."

"Yes, sir."

"A quick examination tells me that the skeleton is virtually intact," Hobson reported, gently running her fingers over the skull, "I can't see any obvious stab or gunshot wounds, but a few of the bones are broken. I can't tell if that was done pre- or post-mortem. I'll know more once I've examined the poor thing properly."

"Aye," Lewis nodded, and sighed, "thanks, Laura."

He stood back and watched as she supervised the gradual removal of the body, and then forensics descended into the grave-pit, checking to see if anything had been buried with the victim that might help them catch the killer. Lewis, however, had a feeling that he knew who the killer was. What he did not know was where to find him… or who had sent the anonymous note. When Hathaway appeared expectantly at his elbow, Lewis was deep in thought.

"Get an APB out on Peter Whittaker," the Inspector ordered; "See if you can find out from the local authority homelessness team what his current description is – better yet, see if they've got him in a hostel or something somewhere. Find out as much as you can about what he's been up to for the last fifteen years."

"Yes, sir," Hathaway nodded, obediently, "oh, and you might like to know, sir – there are reporters gathering outside the front of the property – apparently, they were given an anonymous tip-off as well. They're looking for a statement."

Lewis sighed; he hated dealing with the press; "Fine… I'll tell them to expect a written release. No statements at this time until we know more about what we've found here."

* * *

><p>It was late evening when Lewis was summoned to the pathology laboratory. Under the bright fluorescent lighting on the stainless steel autopsy bench, the skeletal figure looked tragically small, and Lewis gazed at it sadly.<p>

"What can you tell us, Laura?" he asked, leaning on the table, glancing across at her, as Hathaway stepped up for a closer look at the body.

"Pathology is uncertain," Hobson warned them, raising a warning finger, "he's been in the ground for a long time. Yes, I'm saying it's a he, for now. The time of death corresponds with the Whittaker-Allen case. Normally, the margin for error is wide when we're dealing with cases this old, but I've found a few things that will interest you."

"At this stage, anything you can us would be something," Lewis said; "we knew at the time we had two missing kids, but we were ordered to hand over to the missing person's team and move on. We were never allowed to search the house and gardens; the case was closed and there didn't seem to be anyone left to…"

He trailed off, and did not finish the sentence. Hobson gave him a sympathetic look; it was clear he was feeling some lingering guilt over the old case.

"Can you tell us anything about the cause of death, doctor?" Hathaway asked, curiously.

Hobson nodded, returning to her subject; "As I noted at the scene, several of the bones are broken; the right tibia, the left femur, and at least two ribs, to name but a few. However, the most significant injuries are a skull fracture and a broken vertebra in the neck."

"Was he beaten to death?" Lewis wanted to know, "What could cause injuries like that to a kiddie?"

"Either a severe beating, or a significant fall, or even a car accident – whatever it was, there was massive trauma sustained," Hobson said, quietly, her hand resting on the skull of the unfortunate victim, "I can't say for sure, but it looks like the injuries were sustained at around the same time, but whether they occurred all at once or one after the other, I don't know."

"Is there anything else that you can tell us?"

"I did say that the time of death definitely corresponds with the time of the Whittaker-Allen case," Hobson reminded him, "and I can tell you that for certain."

Hathaway picked up on the doctor's inference quickly; "How can you be so sure? You said that there was normally a wide margin for error."

"There is. Now, fifteen years ago, we didn't make it a habit to store our victim's DNA profiles. However, Dr Astbury, the duty pathologist for the case, was doing a study for a paper he was writing at the time around the subject of DNA evidence, and he did take some samples. I dug his thesis out of the hospital library and found the micro-film with all of the samples on it. I was then able to do a biopsy on our victim and managed to recover a small sample of his DNA from deep within the bone. It was very degraded, but I made the match."

"Laura…?" Lewis could not quite believe what he was hearing, as Hobson gave him a triumphant smile.

"This poor thing is the son of Jonathan Whittaker and Helen Allen."

* * *

><p>"So what?" Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent sighed, "Lewis, the case is fifteen years old and you've no evidence that Peter Whittaker was in any way involved. For all you know, the boy's death was the fault of either Jonathan Whittaker or Helen Allen or both, and that's why they buried him in their back garden and then went out to Wytham Woods to kill themselves."<p>

"It doesn't fit, ma'am," Lewis protested, "and besides, we've still got the girl missing, and the anonymous note…"

"Oh yes, your bloody note," Innocent snapped, folding her arms, "some crackpot trying to stir things up, no doubt."

"I don't think so, ma'am," Lewis shook his head, "whoever wrote this note knew exactly where that body was buried; it was only because the garden was so overgrown it took us a while to find the right patch of lavender. Whoever wrote this note was there when the boy was buried."

"You think it could be the missing girl?" Innocent's eyes narrowed; "Well, if she's alive and writing you notes, Lewis, then surely your case is concluded?"

"No, ma'am, it isn't," Lewis persisted, "if the girl is still alive and wrote me this note, then she not only saw the boy buried, but she may have witnessed his death, and those of Jonathan Whittaker and Helen Allen. She makes it clear in her note that it's Peter Whittaker that was to blame – that means that we've got a witness who could put away a killer who's been walking free for fifteen years. Do you really want to leave a man like that out on the streets?"

"If you can even find him," Innocent shot back, "Hathaway, what do you think?"

"I think it was a travesty of justice to ever give up on those missing children, ma'am, and that if there is a witness who could put a murderer in jail – a man who may have killed two adults and their son – then we should be doing everything that we can to find him. Ma'am."

"I might have known you'd take his side," Innocent sighed, and reached for an envelope in her in-tray, "Lewis, while you were out at the morgue, this envelope was delivered by a courier who collected it from a post office personal postal box on request. Here."

She held out to him an unopened envelope. Printed in block capitals on the front of the enveloped were the words 'Inspector Morse – Thames Valley Police'. There was no postal mark, only the courier's receipt. Lewis took it with barely a moment's hesitation, and slit it open, removing the note inside and reading it quickly. He then handed it to Hathaway, who, sensing Innocent's growing impatience, read the letter aloud.

"Dear Inspector Morse… Helen Whittaker came to me again in my dream. She says that you should go to Peter's house if you want to know what happened. They're going to knock it down soon. You should get there quick. Then you'll see. X."

Lewis threw a questioning glance at Innocent, who sighed and waved her hand.

"Go on, then," she said, "but after fifteen years, don't expect to find very much left."

"It's worth a shot, ma'am," Lewis said, grimly, "come on, James – let's go."

* * *

><p>If the formerly impressive home of Jonathan Whittaker and Helen Allen had fallen on hard times, then Peter Whittaker's previous address was positively derelict. Security fencing and large warning signs along the street warned people to keep out of the unsafe structures. Hathaway shivered and dug his hands deeper into his pockets; it was growing late, and he did not fancy traipsing around a collapsing building in the cold and encroaching darkness.<p>

"Sir, is this really such a good idea? Can't it wait until morning?"

"No," Lewis shook his head, taking two flashlights from the boot of his car and handing one to the Sergeant, "in the morning, the bulldozers are coming to start tearing down this street. It's now or never."

With a conceding sigh, Hathaway followed the Inspector up to the front door of the property. Lewis tried the door, which was, of course, locked.

"Don't we need a warrant, sir?"

"The Chief Super's sorting that out," Lewis replied, vaguely, glancing at some of the broken windows, as if assessing other entry points, "here – could you fit through there?"

"Only if I wanted to rip myself and my new suit to pieces, sir."

"Fine…" Lewis raised the torch, and, with a quick, hard motion, he smashed the glass of the front door. Reaching inside, he forced the rusty latch back, and the door swung open on a creak of hinges. Somewhere, distantly, a dog started barking and was shouted into silence by an angry voice.

The two officers ignored the noise as they switched on their torches and stepped inside. Hathaway curled his nose in distaste as he had to step over the rotting corpse of a long-dead pigeon. He could hear rodents scampering around somewhere, and there were clearly birds roosting throughout the decrepit property.

"Sir," Hathaway said, eventually, "what the hell are we looking for?"

"I don't know," Lewis admitted, quietly, shining his torch along the floor and up the stairs, "mind, we never got to search upstairs last time, Jim."

"I doubt there's much up there now, sir," Hathaway replied, casting his own beam up the staircase, "and in all honesty, I don't know if those stairs are going to be all that stable under the carpet."

"It's worth a look, at least," Lewis responded, reaching out for the stair rail, carefully putting his foot on the first step, "if we don't look now, we'll never… shit!"

"Sir!"

Hathaway lunged forward at the expletive as the second stair suddenly splintered and gave way beneath Lewis's foot, toppling him off balance. Hathaway caught Lewis's arm, but was not quick enough to stop the Inspector from falling backwards. Caught behind him, Hathaway tumbled as well and landed solidly on the floor. He felt the floorboards beneath the carpet groan in protest, but they held beneath the two of them. For a moment, Hathaway lay there, and then, remembering that the dead pigeon was probably unpleasantly close by, he pulled himself to his knees, nursing the side of his head where he had bounced it off the floor. Lewis had not moved.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

Lewis did not answer as he sat up, slowly. He was staring at the staircase. Hathaway snatched up his torch, wondering if the other man was hurt, as Lewis raised himself from the awkward sprawl he had landed in, but remained kneeling on the floor.

"The stairs…" he murmured; "Hathaway, man, listen – the writer of the note to Inspector Morse obviously thought that, even after all this time, there was something worth seeing in this house. Something that would have lasted all this time but would have been lost for good when the house gets knocked down…"

Hathaway glanced at the stairs, and then it clicked.

"Dr Hobson said the boy's injuries could have been caused by a significant fall – a fall down the stairs, perhaps?"

"Aye… and I think I remember that this carpet was brand new when we first visited Whittaker here… give me a hand, man."

Lewis took a penknife from his pocket, and, prising the now old and mouldering carpet up from beneath the skirting board by the stairs, Lewis began to saw through the carpet. Eventually, he and Hathaway were able to roll aside a large section of the carpet and they stood, shining their torches down on the bared floorboards. They were old, half-rotten with damp and did not look particularly sturdy. However, the distinct, rusty-brown stains were unmistakeable to the experienced eye.

"Blood," Lewis confirmed, grimly, "Hathaway – get everyone down here. It looks like we've found out where the boy died."

* * *

><p>Leaving the house in the hands of the forensics officers, Lewis and Hathaway returned to the station, where Hathaway immediately made them each a strong cup of coffee. He could see from the pensive look on Lewis's face that his boss was, in all likelihood, about to pull an all-nighter. On an old, cold case that Hathaway could not quite bring himself to be all that interested in, the prospect was not that appealing. Lewis seemed to sense as much from his Sergeant.<p>

"Haven't you got band practice or something this evening?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at the younger man.

Hathaway raised a small smile; "I can spare an hour for some unpaid overtime, sir."

Lewis returned his expression with a grateful look; "Get onto the records of the local authority and find out what happened to Peter Whittaker. I'll try and trace his daughter – I'll be bet a months' wages that she's the one sending these notes, not some psychic channelling Helen Allen from beyond the grave!"

"Well, whoever they are, our 'psychic' knows more than they're letting on, sir," Hathaway agreed.

They fell silent, save for the clicking of computer keys and the rustling of paperwork as each of them lost themselves in their detective work, chasing down records and files that were nearly fifteen years old in an effort to trace two people who had apparently fallen off the radar a long time ago. The air in their shared office was one of intense concentration, which lasted for nearly two hours when Hathaway suddenly raised his head from mumbling into his phone, and hung up the call.

"Sir, I think I've got something…"

Lewis looked up expectantly, as Hathaway spoke.

"I've been e-mailing a couple of friends of mine; one works at the Council and the other works at the County Court. Luckily, both of them are night-owls, and they're both fairly discreet. It seems that Peter Whittaker is well known at the Court; he's in there fairly often being abusive to the staff. Security usually just chuck him out of the building. Anyway, it seems that about five years ago he was pursued relentlessly by his creditors for payment of his debts; he lost his house, his car, and all of his assets. He was eventually declared bankrupt. As we know, he was re-housed by the Council, but evicted again for non-payment of rent. My friend works on the homelessness team – she remembers Whittaker as an alcoholic gambling addict. She says that the last she heard, he'd been sectioned by the hospital for erratic behaviour linked to a delusional disorder."

"Any idea where he is now?"

"I chased up the hospital, who told me that he was released into sheltered accommodation paid for by a charity specialising in these cases. I've telephoned the charity, but it looks like they don't keep the same late hours that we do so I left a message. Have you found out anything about the daughter, sir?"

"Not much," Lewis admitted, "the name on her birth certificate is Jennifer Whittaker. Her father was registered as Peter Whittaker and her mother was Helen Whittaker, nee Allen. It looks like Helen went back to using her maiden name when she left Peter in favour of Jonathan, by whom she had a son, Gareth."

"Well, at least we have a name for the boy."

"Aye. Well, there's not much else to tell; Jennifer Whittaker is still officially listed as a missing person… if it is her sending the notes, she may have changed her name, or left the area, or God-knows-what. She was ten years old at the time… she'll be, what, twenty-four, twenty-five by now? Could be anywhere."

"I'm betting that she's still in Oxford, though," Hathaway pointed out, "how else would she have known that Peter Whittaker's old address was scheduled for demolition tomorrow?"

"You mean today," Lewis gave him a tired smile, nodding towards the clock on the wall, "oh, what are we doing here at this hour? Come on, Jim – let's call it a night."

"Yes, sir," Hathaway replied, gratefully, reaching for his coat, "I'll see you in a few hours, then."

Lewis managed a dry chuckle, as Hathaway gave him a mock salute and left the office quickly, keen to get home. He saw a familiar figure approaching from the other direction, and smiled.

"Good evening, sir," he greeted her.

"Hathaway," Hogan inclined her head with a smile, "I didn't think I'd find you here at this time of night… is Lewis around?"

"Yes, sir – he's in the office."

"Still working on the Whittaker case?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I've got something for you."

She took his arm without a further word, turned him on his heel, and led him back down towards the office as he groaned silently, and wondered if he would ever see his bed again. He was not surprised to find that Lewis was still working away at the computer. The Inspector glanced up in surprise as Hogan pushed Hathaway back into the office and gestured for him to sit down.

"Don't worry, my lads, I won't keep you long," she assured them, wafting a brown paper file at Lewis, "I understand from Jean that you're attempting to find a psychic – haven't you tried looking into your crystal balls?"

Lewis gave her a tired glare; "Ally, I'm really tired. What have you got?"

"Nothing that's too infectious," Hogan, irrepressible as ever, was impervious to his mood, "seriously, though… someone's sending letters addressed to Inspector Morse claiming to by psychic? Can't be that good at it if they don't know he's beyond the veil himself… "

"Hogan, I swear, man; you've got five minutes and them I'm going to kill you and let you find out how good the psychic is for yourself."

Hathaway watched the exchange with tired amusement, as Hogan chuckled to herself.

"Aw, Lewis – don't be like that, not when I've got a present for you!" she said, with a smile, "You've been looking for Jennifer Whittaker, the daughter of Peter and Helen Whittaker, am I correct?"

Lewis merely nodded, interested now, and wondering where this was going.

"I should also be right in saying that when Helen Whittaker died, she was calling herself by her maiden name, Allen, yes? Well, I don't usually reveal my sources, but I happen to know a young lady by the name of Jenny Allen… I've busted her a few times on drugs charges, possession with intent to supply, that kind of thing. She's got a few aliases, but that's what her foster parents knew her as before she ran away from home."

Lewis remained cautious; "Jenny and Allen are both common names, Hogan – what makes you think she's our girl?"

Hogan dropped the thin file on Lewis's desk, looking thoughtful; "I've dealt with Jenny myself a few times – let her off quite a bit. She's a bit imbalanced, mentally I mean, and has a tendency towards self-harm and depression. Once, I found her in a scummy squatter's flat, off her face on heroin. She was talking to me and kept calling me 'Helen'. She seemed to think I was her mother. When I got her to hospital and they managed to sober her up, she told me that her mother had been murdered, but wouldn't say more than that. Could be a coincidence, I suppose."

"Hogan, I take it all back – if this proves a solid lead, I'll owe you a pint."

"At the very least, Lewis. I'm not sure that the address is up to date, but last I heard she was making a go of getting clean and sorting herself out. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"Thanks, Hogan."

"No worries."

With a sweep of her long black leather coat, the head of the vice team was gone, leaving Lewis and Hathaway staring at each other. Lewis eventually took pity on his sergeant.

"Let's get on home, Jim. I can just as easily read this in my flat as here…"

* * *

><p>The file made for depressing reading, and Hathaway had the pleasure of perusing the slim volume the following morning when he returned to his desk after what seemed like an obscenely short period of time. He knew from a glance that Lewis had not slept at all the previous night, but he said nothing, but simply made them each a mug of tea and settled down to speed-read the file.<p>

"So, according to this, Jenny Allen was recently released from a medium-security women's psychiatric hospital," he noted, "the hospital should have her most recent address, sir – she may still be receiving some care at home."

"Aye," inclining his head, Lewis paused to take a mouthful of tea, "oh, and that charity called back, returning your message from last night. I persuaded them to give us Whittaker's current address; they've given him a one bedroom flat out in Blackbird Leys."

Hathaway glanced at the clock on the wall; it was just past eight in the morning.

"Too early for house calls, sir?" he asked, curiously.

Lewis cast an eye at the clock, and then drained the last of his tea.

"Nope. You can take Jenny, I'd better go and see Whittaker. He might remember Morse, at least, if not me."

Hathaway nodded, and grabbed his coat, for the day was grey and cold, with an icy wind and sleety showers. He and Lewis headed out to the car park, where they headed for their respective vehicles.

"Report in to me as soon as you've spoken to Jenny – find out if it is her that sent the notes, and see what she can remember!" were Lewis's parting words.

Hathaway acknowledged the order, and climbed into his car. Starting the engine, he programmed his sat-nav as he watched Lewis drive off ahead of him. Finding Jenny Allen's address, it plotted him a route, and he followed it carefully.

Forty minutes later, after getting stuck in horrendous early-morning traffic, Hathaway found himself outside a row of small houses that had been converted into affordable, one-bedroom flats. The neighbourhood seemed fairly quiet, and the gardens were all small and neat. However, Hathaway felt that there was a kind of quiet desperation about the area; the feeling that the people who lived in these flats had so little to their names that they were determined to make the best of what they had. Shaking off his slightly melancholy air, he located the door to Jenny Allen's flat, and rang the bell.

Three rings and some loud knocking later, he was rewarded with the sound of footsteps from within. He heard at least two bolts slide back in their hasps, a latch was undone, the door barely cracked open on a security chain, and an eye stared out at him.

"H… hello?" stammered a nervous voice.

Hathaway summoned his most reassuring smile and showed his warrant card; "Miss Jennifer Allen? My name is Sergeant James Hathaway… I'm a friend of Inspector Hogan's, do you know her?"

The young woman nodded, hesitantly, from beyond the security chain. Hathaway kept his tone warm and light as he spoke.

"Inspector Hogan thought that I should come and have a little chat with you –will you let me come in, please?"

Jenny Allen hesitated, and then closed the door. The security chain slid off, and the door opened. Hathaway stepped inside the small hallway to be faced with a staircase that led straight up to the second floor flat. Jenny was hiding behind the door somewhat, and she pointed towards the stairs.

"Up there," she said, in a small voice, "first on the right."

"Thank you," Hathaway favoured her with a warm smile, and did as he was bid. He went up into a small, sparsely furnished flat. All of the furniture was clearly second or third hand, and the room was quite cramped, but it was light, and clean, and obviously well-tended. He settled himself into an armchair, in an effort to make his tall frame less intimidating, as Jenny came up the stairs and stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Would you like some tea?" she squeaked at him, as if trying to find her voice through her nerves.

"That would be lovely, please," he replied.

She scuttled off into the kitchen, and took her time making the tea, before returning with two steaming mugs.

"Sorry," she said, shyly, handing him a drink, "the taps… they don't work properly."

Wondering what she meant by that, Hathaway accepted the drink with thanks, and persuaded her to sit down opposite to him, on the settee.

"Do you know Inspector Hogan well?" he asked her, conversationally.

"Oh – yes – she was very nice to me a while ago," Jenny looked away, a flush creeping into her cheeks, "I'm clean now, honest. She helped."

"I'm sure you are, and that she did," Hathaway replied, keeping his smile in place.

He sipped at the tea, and winced a little; it tasted somewhat bitter. He realised that this was probably what Jenny had meant about the plumbing, and wondered if she had over-brewed the tea in an effort to compensate for the dodgy-tasting water.

Hathaway leaned forward a little, keeping the mug in his hands, deliberately trying to appear non-threatening. Jenny looked as if she would bolt for the door at any time. She was small, about five-foot-five, with straggly mousy-brown hair and grey eyes. Her face was pale and she wore no make-up. She looked painfully thin, with long, bony fingers, the nails chewed to the quick. Her jeans and black sweater both looked two sizes too big on her tiny frame.

"Jenny," he said, in a low, reassuring tone, "I don't want you to be scared of me, okay? I'm here to help you, just like Inspector Hogan. She thought that you might be able to help me… so I have to ask… have you been sending letters to Chief Inspector Morse? I take it that you were unaware that Inspector Morse died, several years ago."

At the mention of this name, Jenny gasped and her hands flew to her pale face, her tea abandoned on the low table in front of her.

"How did you find me?"

"It wasn't difficult," Hathaway said, smoothly, "look, nobody's angry at you, Jenny. I just really need your help to close this old case…"

"Helen," Jenny murmured, her eyes glazing over slightly, "Helen came to me in a dream and told me what really happened… you… you've got to arrest Peter, if he finds me, he'll kill me, just like he killed her…"

"How do you know he killed her, Jenny?"

"She told me so."

"No," Hathaway shook his head, and took another mouthful of the bitter tea, "no, Jenny, she didn't tell you anything. You saw it, didn't you? When you were just a little girl, you saw what happened."

Her eyes filled with tears, and one escaped, running down her face unchecked, as she stared at him, visibly trembling.

"He'll kill me," she whispered, fearfully, "if he knew I was alive, he'd kill me…"

"Who? Who would kill you?"

"P-P-Peter. Peter W-Whittaker."

"My boss has gone to see him, Jenny. You're perfectly safe."

"You… you've found him? You know where he is? Where is he?"

"I can't tell you that," Hathaway shook his head, making another effort to drink the tea, "now, come on, Jenny – you were there, weren't you? Helen Allen didn't come to you in a dream – she was your mother."

Jenny hung her head, stifling a sob. Hathaway let her cry for a few moments, before she finally raised her head.

"G-G-Gareth had come over to play," she said, haltingly, sniffing back her tears, "he…he came over sometimes, when Helen and Jonathan had to go out. Peter went out and came back angry and… and drunk. I was used to it, but Gareth didn't know. He got in the way… Peter…p-p-pushed him d-down the stairs…"

She buried her face in her hands. Hathaway tried to get up to go and offer her some reassurance, but found that his legs would not obey. Panic rose within him as the room reeled alarmingly, and he blinked, trying to bring his vision back into focus – what the hell was the matter with him?

"That w-w-was when Helen and Jonathan came back," Jenny was saying, as if oblivious to the Sergeant's difficulties, "they… they saw Gareth… Peter said if they screamed, he'd kill them… he had a gun… I hid. Peter said he'd bury Gareth in their garden so they'd be suspects… then they went away. When Peter came back he was really bad… laughing to himself, shouting for me to come out, that he'd shot mum and her bastard boyfriend, and that I was next… I waited until he was asleep and I ran away."

Hathaway tried to speak, as the mug slipped from his numb fingers and crashed to the floor. The tea… there must have been something in the tea… he felt her hands suddenly on his face, holding his head up as she looked beseechingly into his eyes.

"I slept rough, you see. Got into bad company… it was all his fault. He should have killed me, too – not left me to live like this. When I got fostered, I found out that Helen – my mum – was dead, and everyone said Jonathan killed her. I knew it wasn't true… not true at all. Peter – my dad – he did it. He killed them. You do believe me, don't you?"

Hathaway could not speak as his vision blurred, and he fought to keep himself conscious. He was slumped in the armchair as she held his hand to her cheek, her tears wet on his fingers.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, "I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I didn't know Morse was dead – I kept the newspapers that said he was the officer in charge…I'm so sorry. You will tell Hogan I said I was sorry, won't you? You seem so nice… they're only sleeping pills… I don't think I gave you too many… I'm so sorry… I just can't live with it anymore… please, please just go to sleep… I'm so sorry…"

Unable to move, Hathaway felt her rummaging through his pockets, and he heard a jangling noise as she took his keys, and then his notepad, riffling through it quickly.

"You know where he is… you've got his address… I'm so, so sorry… but maybe now I can end it…"

There was a noise as Hathaway heard the woman rummaging about in the kitchen. He had to move – he forced himself to his feet. The last thing he saw, however, was the wickedly-sharp looking kitchen knife that she was holding, before the darkness swallowed him and he pitched, face-first, to the living room floor.

* * *

><p>Lewis ended up sitting in a traffic jam for nearly an hour before he finally made it through Oxford and out to Blackbird Leys. An accident between a Mercedes and a BMW had ended up blocking one of the main roads, and Lewis had resisted the urge to call his colleagues in the traffic division to tell them to get a bloody move on with clearing up the mess and the two irate drivers involved in what was probably going to be a very bitter, very expensive insurance claim.<p>

Peter Whittaker's ground floor flat turned out to be a poky, one-bedroom affair at the bottom of an imposing tower block. Lewis parked his car, double checked that it was locked, and kicked his way through the litter towards the front door. It had been propped open, in defiance of the intended security it was meant to provide by use of a buzzer system. Three boys and two girls, all wearing similar hooded tops, glared at him suspiciously. The air was rank with the smell of cannabis, but Lewis had other things on his mind. He rapped on the door of Whittaker's flat.

"You won't get no answer out of that old bastard, mate, he's a fucking nutter, that one."

Lewis turned, but he was not sure which of the boys had spoken.

"Do you know him?" he asked, curiously.

Five sullen shrugs were all he received in reply. Lewis banged on the door again; distantly, he could hear someone coughing inside the flat. He had to try again. Banging on the door, he raised his voice.

"Mr Whittaker? Mr Whittaker, open up – it's the police!"

There were five sets of muffled curses behind him, as the group of youths suddenly realised, as one, that they all had urgent and pressing business somewhere else on the estate. There was grumbling and cursing from within the property, and the door to the flat suddenly wrenched open and banged on a security chain. Lewis found himself staring into a pair of bloodshot blue eyes. The face was almost unrecognisable, but yet the same; the slightly bulbous nose, now red and chequered with broken veins, with the eyes too close together and that thin, pursed mouth. Whittaker's hair was longer, a dirty, rat-tailed mess of brown and grey that hung down to his shoulders, the same as his unkempt, overgrown beard. Lewis tried not to wrinkle his noise at the pungent smell of alcohol, sweat, urine and decay that rolled out of the flat like a vapour.

"Mr Whittaker? I'm Inspector Lewis, Oxford police. I'd like to come in."

The eyes peered at him suspiciously, but the door was banged shut, the chain slid back, and Lewis was admitted into the most squalid property that he had ever had the misfortune to stand in. It looked as if Whittaker hadn't taken out a bag of rubbish for months; every surface was filthy, the whole place stank, and there were empty bottles strewn everywhere. Whittaker was clutching a whisky bottle, from which he took a generous swig.

"Who the fuck are you?" he growled, in a low voice, turning his back on Lewis, "Can't you people leave me alone?"

"My name is Inspector Lewis… I used to work for Chief Inspector Morse," Lewis chose his words carefully, but saw that he was getting no response, "Mr Whittaker… you helped us on an enquiry, fifteen years ago."

"Past's past. Fucking leave it there."

"Mr Whittaker – I need your help again. Do you remember the case?"

"I ain't got no money, so you can't fucking have any, right? So bugger off."

"I'm not a bailiff, Mr Whittaker, I'm with the police."

"Police?"

"Yes, Mr Whittaker. Do you remember…?"

"What the fuck do you want? I ain't got no money."

"I'm not here for money, Mr Whittaker," Lewis said, patiently, "I was wondering if you could help me. We're investigating a murder – Gareth Whittaker. He was your nephew – the son of your ex-wife, Helen, and your half-brother, Jonathan… we've found his body…"

"Jonathan?"

That seemed to pierce the alcoholic haze, and Lewis wondered if he might, finally, be getting somewhere.

"Aye, Jonathan Whittaker… do you remember, you gave evidence for us…?"

"Dead," Whittaker was shaking his head, "he's dead."

"I know," Lewis said, gently, as the old man began to pace around, mumbling to himself, "look, Mr Whittaker…"

"Dead. Jonathan's dead. Should know – killed him myself."

"Mr Whittaker, I must caution you that anything you say may be taken down in evidence…"

"Dead!" Whittaker's voice rose a fraction, "Jonathan's dead! I killed him… shot her first, I did, and then put the gun in his hand after I shot him in the head…he's dead…"

"Mr Whittaker, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me…"

Lewis reached out to take the other man's arm, but Whittaker turned on him with surprising strength.

"No!" he screamed, "No, you bastard, you're dead! You're dead! I killed you! You're dead!"

Lewis barely had a chance to register that Whittaker had mistaken him for the long-dead Jonathan, when, suddenly, Whittaker swung the whisky bottle. Lewis did not see it coming, but felt the bottle smash across the side of his head, behind his left ear. The whisky left in the bottle felt warm and wet on his neck, as he pitched to his knees, and collapsed in a heap on the floor, gasping, his head looping in sickening surges as he fought to stay conscious.

He had no idea how long he lay on the floor, his head throbbing. Whittaker moved around the flat like a caged animal, growling and mumbling to himself, still clutching the broken remains of the bottle. He seemed to have forgotten that the Inspector was present, and Lewis was keen to avoid reminding him. The blow to the head had stunned him, and the foul smell in the flat seemed to be threatening to choke him.

Suddenly, after what felt like an eternity, the front door creaked open, and Lewis realised that Whittaker had not closed it properly. However, he could not move without his vision reeling and threatening to send him back down into darkness. He tried to raise his head but this made his eyesight blur. He could feel blood running down the side of his face, dripping onto the floor. He tried to raise his hand to touch the back of his head, but he was shaking so much he could barely move. Shock, he realised, distantly, as he shivered; he was loosing blood from a deep head wound and he was slipping into shock.

A gentle, hesitant footstep near his head reminded him that someone else had entered the flat. Hathaway? No, the blurry figure was far too small to be his lanky Sergeant. Was it one of the hooded youths from earlier, then? Again, no… the figure was too slight, and wore the wrong clothes…

The figure crouched down beside Lewis, and he could hear stifled sobs, as a female voice whispered, "Who're you?"

"In…Inspector… Lewis," he gasped out, trying to get up, "Po…police."

"Oh… you must be with the nice Sergeant… I'm really sorry…"

The voice sounded distressed, and a hand gently touched his head, before the woman was gone. Lewis managed to sit up, leaning against the rubbish-covered sofa, pressing a hand to the back of his head in an effort to stem the flow of blood. He looked up, and saw a woman he did not recognise, standing over Whittaker. The old man turned and fell to his knees, staring up at the woman.

"He…Helen?" Whittaker murmured, in a broken voice, "is it… is it you?"

"Yes," the woman said, softly.

"But you're… you're dead."

"You killed me, Peter."

"Helen," Whittaker's voice broke in a sob, "I'm so sorry… I love you…"

"But you killed me, Peter…"

"I couldn't stand it… you, with my brother… and you had a son…"

"I had a daughter, too, Peter. Remember her?"

"Jen…Jenny?"

Too late, Lewis saw the knife and realised who the woman was; "Jennifer!" he gasped, "Don't!"

"I forgive you, Peter."

The knife flashed, and Peter Whittaker barely made a sound as he keeled over and slumped to the floor. Lewis could only stare in dismay at the old man's body, powerless to prevent the sudden attack.

"Jenny," Lewis said, his voice rasping slightly, "Jenny, look at me."

The woman turned to face him; Lewis could see a small smile on her face and a slightly distant look in her eye.

"You will tell them, won't you?" she said, in a far away voice, "Hogan and the nice Sergeant… you will tell them I said sorry, won't you?"

Lewis forced himself up, gasping to suppress the dizziness and nausea as he got to his feet.

"Don't, pet," he said, urgently, "just… give me the knife, Jenny."

Jenny turned on him, and he was chilled when he saw her empty gaze, devoid of any emotion, despite the tears that were still drying on her face. Lewis, leaning heavily against the wall, could barely focus on her – Whittaker really had hit him with some force with the bottle.

"I can help you," he said, holding out his hand towards her, "come on, Jenny – come with me. It's all over now."

"Not yet," she shook her head, "you will tell them, won't you – Hogan, and that sweet Sergeant – you will tell them I'm sorry, won't you?"

"I don't have to – you can come with me and tell them yourself…"

Lewis watched as she reached for the drinks cabinet, the knife still pointed towards him. She was between him and the front door, and he could not risk lunging at her while she still held the blood-stained blade. She took a bottle of the cheap whisky Whittaker had obviously favoured, and poured it over Whittaker's body. A second bottle was poured over herself. She took a lighter from her pocket.

"Don't do this, Jenny," Lewis took a shaky step forward, but the knife snapped up, inches from his face, "Jenny, you'll kill me, too."

"But Jonathan, my love – we're both already dead."

Lewis realised that there was no reasoning with the woman; she seemed to buy into Whittaker's delusion that he was Jonathan Whittaker, back from the dead, and she, the unfortunate Helen.

He tried again; "You're not dead, Jenny. You're Jennifer Allen, and whatever it is you're going through, I can help…"

She hesitated, and Lewis took a step forward. However, with a sudden shout of rage, she leapt at him, and, despite her smaller stature, Lewis was taken by surprise. He managed to bat the knife to one side, but he fell awkwardly with her, and his already sore head connected solidly with the wall. He was unconscious before he had crumpled to the floor.

Jennifer Allen slowly got to her feet. Jonathan, her love, the man who had just betrayed her with his denials, lay on the floor, with blood all over his face. He must be dead… she looked at the knife and the lighter, still in her hands. She held the lighter up. Crossing to Whittaker's body, she lay down on the floor next to him, and, with the lighter, started a small flame that roared across the alcohol she had spilled, quickly igniting the body. The flames licked at her, but she did not feel them as she held the knife above her chest, and plunged it home.

The flames took hold, and smoke filled the tiny, squalid flat, and amongst it all, Lewis lay there, unconscious and unmoving.

* * *

><p>The taxi driver was less than impressed at the state of his passenger, and he had paled further when the apparently wasted young man had produced what looked like an authentic police badge and told him to 'get a bloody move on'.<p>

"I thought you lot weren't allowed to drink on duty?" the driver groused, as Hathaway sat in the back seat, his head still reeling.

"I'm not drunk, now just drive, will you?" Hathaway snapped at him.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, until they turned the corner into the block of flats where Whittaker lived. Hathaway knew that Jenny had taken the address from his notebook, and though he had not known what to expect, it was not this. Several residents were milling around outside, some of them in dressing gowns, watching with mild disinterest as smoke poured out of the ground floor flat window. Whittaker's flat.

"I ain't going any closer to that," the taxi driver grunted.

Hathaway all but threw a twenty-pound note at him, and, without waiting for any change, he dashed across the square, already reaching for his badge.

"Police!" he snapped at the nearest bystander, an elderly woman with white hair and no teeth, "What's going on here?"

"Silly old fart's set fire to hisself, ain't he?" she wheezed at him, "Knew he'd do something like this, drunken old sot."

"Has anyone called the fire brigade?" Hathaway shouted.

"They're on their way, mate," said a beefy looking man who had his arm around a ginger-haired woman half his age, "got stuck in traffic though, ay it?"

Hathaway ran towards the flat; this had been where Lewis was heading, and no doubt Jenny too; either or both of them could still be in there. He ignored the startled shouts from a couple of the bystanders, warning him not to go in, and plunged through the communal entrance. He could feel the heat from the flames as he did so, but entered the flat without hesitation. He got a lungful of smoke and coughed, squinting in an effort to see. The flat had been squalid, anyone could see that, but the rubbish was burning now, with an acrid stench that filled his nose and throat with fumes.

However, there, on the floor, he was just about able to make out a shape. The fire had not reached that part of the floor yet. Hathaway lunged in, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the blood on Lewis's face. Without a moment's thought, Hathaway grabbed Lewis by the shoulders, and simply dragged him out of the flat, into the communal hallway. By this time, the fire engine had made it through the traffic, and the crew set to work, unreeling hoses and charging towards the building. An ambulance was close behind, as two squad cars rolled up.

Hathaway could only wait for the ambulance crews to reach them. He gently lifted Lewis up slightly in the crook of his arm, trying to see if the Inspector was still breathing. Suddenly, there was a paramedic by his side with an oxygen canister and a mask.

"He'll be fine, mate, just step aside and let us take him…"

Hathaway flashed his badge automatically; "Sergeant Hathaway – this is Inspector Lewis. He seems to have suffered a head wound…"

"We'll take care of him," the paramedic said, reassuringly, "you'd better come too, mate – sounds like you got more than a lungful of that smoke."

Hathaway acquiesced, and allowed himself to be led away as the medics took care of loading Lewis onto a gurney. Hathaway sat in the back of the ambulance, a red blanket around his shoulders and an oxygen mask over his face, still feeling woozy from the sleeping pills, as they were rushed to the hospital. He did not see where Lewis was taken, as he was consigned to a bed in A&E. Before he really knew what was going on, Hathaway found himself succumbing to sleep. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and drifted off.

* * *

><p>When Hathaway awoke, there was a strong hand resting on his arm, and he blinked a familiar face into focus.<p>

"Sir?" he murmured.

"Hush up, lad," Inspector Hogan smiled down at him, "you're fine now. There were enough tranquilisers in you to knock out a horse, by all accounts!"

"How long have I…?"

"About four hours," Hogan replied, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as Hathaway groggily sat up, "you did good, mate – from the sounds of it, you got to Lewis just in time."

"Is he alright?"

"A real nasty concussion – the doctors say there was two separate head wounds, one of which had some glass in it – he's got seven stitches and a lousy headache, but I reckon he's had worse hangovers. You can come and see him, if you're up to walking."

Hathaway managed to lever himself up off the bed, and stood on shaky legs, with Hogan's assistance. She looped her arm through his, and although he was startled at first by the close contact, he allowed the older Inspector to lead him through the hospital.

"People will talk if they see us, sir," he commented, lightly.

Hogan gave an unladylike snort; "Aye – they'll say look at that nice boy helping his grandma around the place!"

"There is no way for me to respond to that without incriminating myself on some level, sir."

"Well put, Jim."

There was a slight pause, and Hathaway eventually spoke; "Sir? What about… What about Jenny?"

"I'm sorry, lad… she's dead," Hogan replied, quietly, not meeting his gaze, "the poor lass… it looks like she killed Whittaker and then herself. Lewis confirms as much. It was Jenny that started the fire…"

"I'm sorry. I know you were a good friend to her – she did mention you."

"Aye… poor thing… she never had it easy. Hopefully she's at some kind of rest now, eh?"

Hathaway could only nod, not trusting himself to speak. They walked on through seemingly endless corridors, until they came to a ward desk, and Hathaway was surprised to find Lewis was standing there, apparently waiting for them. Hogan sighed, and put her hands on her hips, releasing Hathaway's arm.

"I thought I told you to stay in bed and wait for me to come back?" Hogan said, her tone laden with innuendo.

"I was so terrified it scared me into recovery," Lewis replied, dryly, hiding a cough behind his hand, "Hathaway, man – how are you feeling?"

"Better now, thank you, sir."

"Look, Jim… I heard what you did…"

"No more than you did for me, sir."

"Aye, well, you know… thanks."

Hogan coughed, loudly; "Yes, well, now that touching display of male sentimentalism is over, I'm under orders to escort you two back to your various residences. You could both do with a shower and a change of clothes, if you don't mind my saying so."

Lewis glanced down at himself appraisingly. His suit was stained with dirt, and he knew he must look a sight, with his soot-and-blood stained face and a thick bandage wrapped around his head. He managed to raise a tired smile; Hathaway looked pale beneath the soot streaks on his own face, and he was still swaying slightly.

"Come on, then," Lewis said, at last, "let's get out of here."

* * *

><p>The next day, Lewis and Hathaway found that Chief Superintendent Innocent had given them both a couple of days' medical leave. For lack of anything better to do, Hathaway sent a text to Lewis and met the Inspector at one of the local pubs for lunch. He was not surprised to find that Lewis not only beat him to the bar, but had a pint waiting for the Sergeant when he arrived. Dressed in their casual clothes, nobody would have taken them for policemen at all.<p>

"Afternoon, sir," Hathaway said, as he took a seat, "oh, great – thanks for the drink. How are you feeling today?"

"Like I've been on a twenty-four hour bender and developed a forty-a-day habit," Lewis replied, ruefully rubbing his chest and coughing a little, "you?"

"I slept for another ten hours," Hathaway admitted, "I don't think I'll be able to sleep again for a week, but I reckon I got the drugs out of my system."

They drank in companionable silence for a while, before Lewis glanced down at the table. He had removed the bandage, but Hathaway could still see some blood matted in his hair where he was unable to wash for fear of getting the stitches wet.

"Jim… I just wanted to let you know… I am grateful for what you did."

"Just repaying a favour, sir…"

They both knew that it was more than that, but they let it lie. Eventually, Hathaway set his pint glass down on the table and glanced across at Lewis. The other man looked as if he was a million miles away. _Fifteen years away, to be precise,_ Hathaway thought.

"Sir? Jenny and Whittaker… at least they've found some sort of peace."

"I wish I could," Lewis's sighed response surprised Hathaway slightly, and Lewis chuckled at his expression. "No, lad, not like that. I mean… this case. It's all wrong. What did I do it for? Stirred up an old hornet's nest and look where we ended up; three more bodies in the lab, and no-one to grieve for them."

"You've cleared the name of an innocent man, and you only did what Jenny wanted to you do – find her brother and lay him to rest."

Lewis did not respond, staring morosely out of the pub window for a long moment. It was at times like this that he remembered how hard Morse took his own failings, and he, Lewis, the chipper Sergeant, would try to cheer him up. He could not compare himself to Morse, but… he empathised. He picked up his pint, and drained it. Hathaway was watching him carefully, and Lewis hid a wince behind a tight smile as he turned towards the young Sergeant.

"Jim, if you really want to cheer me up, you know what to do."

"Call Dr Hobson, sir?"

"Cheeky sod. Go on, you know what to do."

Hathaway gave a theatrical sigh, collected their empty glasses, and went to the bar to order the next round. Lewis glanced out of the window again, at the darkening grey sky, and silently hoped that all of the victims, and perhaps even Morse himself, might actually have found some peaceful rest.

* * *

><p>FINIS<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN: Bit of a sad ending, but that's the story... I'd love to know what you think. I hope it won't be quite so long before I am able to post again. _


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